


The Heart of the Blessed

by BRuh4, Longclaw_1_6



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Jon Snow, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Longclaw Rule of Happy Endings, Loving Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, No MQ, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Season 8 sucks, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Stannis makes Jon a Stark, Violence, eventual romance - Jonerys, fuck D&D, idk what else to say, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 148,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRuh4/pseuds/BRuh4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longclaw_1_6/pseuds/Longclaw_1_6
Summary: With a simple bending of the knee, Jon is made a Stark by Stannis Baratheon, pledging himself to Stannis at Castle Black. His new identity fuels him to seek justice for his massacred family but also sets into motion to a fateful confrontation with the invading Dragon Queen.Jonerys.Collaboration with Longclaw, idea spawned after Season 8 became a dumpster fire. We are using this as a springboard to the ending us fans deserve.





	1. A Stag's Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, BRuh4 here, I had this idea quite a while ago, and I brought my friend Longclaw in on it because it became quite the handful. Also, we both loved the idea of Jon becoming a Stark way back in season 5, and what implications that would have. It's a great place to start as well because right around there is where the show started to decline a bit until the floor dropped out and everything caught on fire. 
> 
> So, we got this written. We are very excited and hope this gets you hyped for what's to come.
> 
> Longclaw here. When BRuh4 came with this idea, I was intensely intrigued by it. We sort of made it our own, lol. So, yeah. This is Jonerys all the way, so Dany will be arriving soon. But it will be Jon-centric for the first few chapters. Enjoy and comment!

He had watched many men die. In the heat of battle, spear through the gut, an arrow piercing the chest, or sword slicing through the neck, there was always a hint of honor hidden amongst the fetid stank and chaotic gore. In bed, life simply passing into an endless sleep - there was a sense of serenity to it, of leaving a body wracked with pain and age into a higher plane of existence. At the hangman’s noose, a sense of justice derived following the twitching of the condemned man upon the rope.

But nothing could compare to death by fire. Stannis Baratheon had never seen something symbolizing both purity and terror. Perhaps such was why the Lord of Light favored it. Watching Mance Rayder - the King Beyond the Wall - writhe and scream as the flames licked at his bound frame, it was as if all of his pretensions and sins escaped in a purifying terror. Stannis watched silently, his lips in a thin line as the flames did their work…

Thwack.

A single arrow, slamming into Mance’s chest. The King Beyond the Wall looked at it with shock, the pain subsiding as his heart rapidly drained of blood. The Rightful King’s head swiveled, tracing the arrow to its origin.

Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell turned brother of the Night’s Watch. Bow in hand, he simply walked away, not a word said to any crowding around the pyre.

“Bold, your Grace,” Davos Seaworth stated flatly.

“He’s just like his father,” Stannis merely replied, derision tinting his tone. “Ned Stark was always that honorable.”

“Forgive me, your Grace, but is that necessarily a bad thing?”

Opening his mouth to scoff, Stannis blinked instead. “No, perhaps it is not.”

\----------------------------------------

The great hall of Castle Black was a cacophony of noise. Tens of dozens of rowdy men, crowded together with flowing ale and hearty stew, hoisting their exaltation at the still new victory over the hated savages north of the wall. For many, the death of the King Beyond the Wall and the likely fracturing of whatever alliance the various clans had was an added cause for celebration. But for some - their feasting slow and voices subdued - no joy was felt. No flagons of ale were hoisted in triumph. Only a sense of loss. Of losing beloved friends and comrades to a fight that, in the scheme of things, meant nothing.

Jon Snow was one of these men. In fact, he suffered from it moreso. Seated in the far corner, he isolated himself from even his remaining friends who at least mourned the fallen together. 

Only Jon had lost far more. An image flashed through his mind… one of flaxen hair, kissed by fire. Of conflicting emotions swirling on a beautiful face, of both hate and love - before a crossbow bolt slammed into her chest. Snuffing her life out in his arms. 

“Ygritte,” he murmured. 

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her, or allow her to fall for him. Such a relationship was doomed from the start and was a stain on his self-imposed honor, but all he truly regretted was allowing her to die. He hadn’t seen it coming, and wasn’t prepared to feel the hurt that he does now. He’d felt loss before, with his father and brother. But this was entirely different, like a part of him just separated from his soul forever. 

Ygritte was a piece of him he didn’t know he needed until he found her. Now that she’s gone forever, that part of him will never return.

Did he truly deserve to live through the battle? To keep on breathing while Pyp and Grenn and Ygritte had given their lives? Jon did not know and withdrew into himself - away from even Ghost. 

“Brooding, Lord Snow?”

Looking up, Jon saw the Stag King approaching, hands by his side. “I am no lord,” he replied, sighing. “Nowhere near it.”

“Ser Davos and I wish to speak with you.”

“Your Grace?” Jon frowned, looking behind Stannis - expecting to see Davos standing there.

“Not here,” Stannis said. “In my solar.” Without another word, he turned around and walked away. Jon’s frown stayed about his countenance, but he stood, following all the same. Stannis was out the door of the Great Hall before Jon even made it past his Night’s Watch brothers who were actually celebrating. The brothers parted quickly for the Stag but closed back down for the Bastard.

Jon stepped out onto the ramparts once he fought through his drunken brothers, head snapping back and forth to see where the King went. He saw him enter a door on his left, to which Jon followed. Making it to the solar, he entered to see Stannis calmly sitting behind the desk with Ser Davos to his right. For a while, no one spoke, the silence hanging over them like snow clouds. Then, Jon heard the door open behind him as the Red Woman appeared suddenly. Ambling to the corner closest to Jon, her eyes burned holes in his back. Her presence disturbed him.

By the way Davos glared at her, he felt similarly. ‘They obviously aren’t the closest of advisors,’ he thought. Jon was not entirely familiar with their history, but it seemed torrid.

Stannis’ stern voice broke the silence, “You showed mercy to a man I sentenced to death, I ordered him burned at the stake. You prevented that. You showed kindness, if a King shows to much kindness, people won’t fear you. If they don’t fear you they won’t follow you.” 

Jon’s eyebrow rose. Did he expect the wildlings to follow him now, to bend the knee to him by virtue of his conquest? “With respect, Your Grace, the Freefolk will never follow you. You’re the man who burned their King alive.”

“That may be true, young Snow,” stated Davos. “But there is one they may follow. Someone who has lived among them, fought alongside them, and even in the midst of a great battle honored one among them with an honorable funeral.”

The Stark bastard silent, Stannis sighed, revealing a note. He slid it across to Jon. “Lyanna Mormont, you know her?”

Jon nods, “The Lord Commander’s niece.” Picking up the ravenscroll, his head hung down to examine it. As his eyes scan across the parchment, he couldn’t help but smirk. He read it aloud, “House Mormont knows no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.”

Noticing Jon musing, Stannis said, “That amused you?”

“My apologies, Your Grace, the North are loyal to their own.”

“Yes, I’ve heard as much. Robert struggled to keep them in line… even with the help of your father. A Stark, in Winterfell, as Warden of the North.”

Davos spoke up, “Apparently, there’s to be an election tonight for the Night’s Watch’s new Lord Commander.”

“That is correct, Ser Davos,” Jon replied.

“Ser Aliser will win.”

“Most likely.”

“How will you fare under him here?”

Jon shook his head, “I’m not looking forward to it.”

“He thinks you a traitor,” Stannis added. “You made him look weak. He’ll punish you for your bravery.”

Frustration built inside Jon. “Your Grace, what do you want from me?”

Stannis replied, simply, “The North.”

“I can’t--”

“Lay your sword at my feet, pledge yourself to me, and you’ll rise again as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” Stannis explained. 

Jon blinked. “Your Grace…” Such made Jon pause… he still was inclined to decline, but Davos’ words gave him pause. The Free Folk would likely just end up meat for the Army of the Dead… but he didn’t have authority to bring them out of harm’s way as Jon Snow, brother of the Night’s Watch. But as Jon Stark, Warden of the North…? 

“I…”

“Think about it,” Davos continued for his King. “Who is more palatable to the northern Lords. You, faithful son to Ned Stark and brave member of the Watch, or a Lord who betrayed his King for the sake of King Joffrey and the Lannisters?” None in the north was partial to the Lannisters. “Even as a legitimized bastard, you’ll have a higher claim than the traitor Roose Bolton would ever have.”

“I must say,” Stannis stated, grumbling. “I have quite the distaste for the man… Roose Bolton. Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, the man is craven. Murdering his King, at a wedding… nothing is more dishonorable. I mean to put his head on a pike. But I need more men. I need the wildlings.”

“I don’t know what to say, Your Grace,” Jon sighed. His brain failed to comprehend all the thoughts rushing through it.

“Say nothing, then,” Stannis said. “Think on my offer.”

“Think carefully, Jon.” It was Davos, echoing his King. 

Jon swept away from them in a blur, scurrying out the door. Needing someone to spill all his thoughts to… hells, it wasn’t even a choice. That person had always been Sam.

\----------------------------------------

The pace quickened as Jon’s eyes set on his larger than life friend, Sam strolled across the courtyard by his lonesome. Jon moved into stride next to him, looping their arms together.

“Oh, Jon, what are you---” The portly steward was literally being hauled forward by his friend.

Jon raised a finger to his lips to silence his friend, then he said, “Sam, we need to talk.” His head swiveling around, peering for any onlookers.

Nodding, Sam pointed to the direction of the cellars. “We can go there. No one looks in there unless it’s Ser Janos during a battle.” His attempt to joke fell flat. Normally, even the brooding Jon would crack a smile. “Wow, this is serious.”

Not responding, Jon walked with his friend in silence until the door to the pantry latched closed behind them. Catching his friend’s worried look, Jon deflated. “Sorry, Sam. I’m just shaken up a bit.”

“You’ve been out of it since your wildling died.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement. Sam was the last person who would criticize falling in love with a wildling. “And yet this is the first time I’ve seen any real fire in you. What’s up?”

Best out with it. “Stannis Baratheon wants me to be Lord of Winterfell, give him the North. Offered to legitimize me as Ned Stark’s eldest son and heir.” Jon watched as Sam’s mouth formed a perfectly round oval. The larger man appeared speechless for once. Jon gripped his friend’s shoulder and shook him, “Sam… Sam. Say something.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth several times, as if trying to find the right words to say but failing… “I’m… happy for you, Jon,” Sam said, finally. Shock having been washed away, replaced with happiness for his good friend. “He can make you a Stark with the stroke of a pen.”

Jon exhaled, “It’s the first thing I ever remember wanting… to be a Stark. Praying at the godswood, just asking for my family to really be my family. Like they were supposed to be all along.”

“You can have it now,” Sam smiled, patting Jon on the back. “Not that many people get what they’ve always wanted, Jon.”

“I don’t know what I want, Sam.”

Sam frowned, clearly a bit confused. “What’d you mean?”

“I’ve… had daydreams about my father asking the King… Then just like that---” Jon snapped his gloved fingers. “I’d never be the Bastard of Winterfell anymore. Now that’s it right in front of me, it doesn’t seem real.”

“Lots of dreams don’t seem real, Jon. But also lots of them do,” Sam replied. “You deserve this, Jon. You should agree.”

“But my vows… I swore myself to the Night's Watch,” Jon explained. “I can’t abandon all my brothers.”

Now, Sam’s expression darkened. “Thorne wants to kill you.”

Jon’s brows furrowed. “I know he doesn’t like me…”

“No, he literally wants you dead. I overheard him talking to Slynt about how you were a traitor for caring about the wildlings…” Sam grabbed him by the collar. “When he wins tomorrow, I think he’ll have you killed. He doesn’t have full authority to do so now, but he will after he’s voted in.” 

“Sam---”

“You’ll be safer with Stannis,” Sam told him. “If he’s to be King you’ll be Warden of the North one day.”

“You heard our vows. You took them with me. I am a brother until my watch ends.”

“True, but if Thorne kills you, then wouldn’t that end your watch? I hate to sound hypertechnical--”

“Hate to sound?” 

Sam looked up to see Jon smirking slightly. He laughed in response, glad to see his friend could still have some humor. “Fair enough. But your watch will end regardless of what you do. If you take this opportunity, then at least you’ll live.”

“What kind of Lord will I be if I don’t take my words seriously?” Jon scoffed, recoiling from Sam. He turned his back to his friend.

“Loyal to a fault.”

“What?” Jon regarded Sam with puzzlement.

“You’re loyal to a fault, Jon. You’re too honorable sometimes,” Sam shrugged. “This is an opportunity that every other man in this castle would take.”

“I’m not every other man.”

“But I’m telling you, that you should go with Stannis,” Sam said, taking a step closer to Jon. “I remember how angry you were when your father and brother died - when your sisters were taken by that mad idiot, Joffrey. Your sister, Sansa, is in the grasp of Roose Bolton as we speak.” Jon’s eyes widened. In his grief over Ygritte, he hadn’t yet fully considered that. “Unspeakable things are happening to her. You had all that anger, and you pushed it down because you had nowhere to put it. You can avenge your family, Jon. Better yet, you can save your family. Last time you wanted to leave, we left to come get you, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Jon said, smiling sadly.

“Well, this time… I’m letting you go. I’m telling you to go. You deserve this, Jon.” Sam affirmed.

“I don’t think I deserve it,” Jon shook his head.

Sam stared at him. “Is it because of Ygritte?”

“Be careful, Sam,” Jon grimaced. The memory of holding his wildling lover dead in his arms fresh at the forefront of his mind. The feeling of her the life leaving her body, the light fleeing her eyes. Jon never did cry, but he tried. It was love, he knew. But the emotion just never came.

Grabbing Jon’s arm, Sam willed him to see the truth. “What would she want for you, Jon?”

Only silence left Jon, for both knew the answer. In all her anger, in all her grief, Ygritte couldn’t kill him. Couldn’t launch the arrow that could have easily ended his life… on more than one occasion. ‘You know nothing, Jon Snow,’ he could hear her saying, likely with a smack upon the head.

“She would want me to live,” he said simply.

“Well, there you go.”

\---------------------------------------------------

The wind whipped Jon’s hair around, howling violently. Seeming like a sign from the Gods to refuse Stannis. Nevertheless, it made deliberating within himself quite difficult. As soon as Jon left Sam, he went directly to atop the wall. Where he could find some peace and quiet. He stood on the very edge, staring down into the endless darkness below. 

Whining gently, Ghost nudged his side, as if sensing his master’s inner turmoil. Jon gave the direwolf a small smile, scratching behind his ear. Ghost’s tongue lolled out, enjoying the attention. “Thank you, boy.” Of the few moments of joy Jon had since leaving Winterfell, Ghost played a prominent role in over half of them. 

But as always, the stress of duty would come crashing down upon him. Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell.

Heavy indecision came upon him, on one hand, there was something Jon had innately always desired.

Recognition.

To be known as a Stark, to be on the same level as everyone else. The same as his siblings. He’d been a rung below everyone since he was born, just because of his name. Because of the circumstances of his birth, he’d been stepped over ever since.

The other option is to continue to sit idly by as he always had. When his father was executed, and when his brother was slaughtered, his wife and unborn child with him. As his sister found her way home, but also into the waiting hands of the people who murdered her family. Oh, how his blood boiled then. But he had nowhere to go, as Sam said, nowhere to put all that anger. Nonetheless, the fire had fuel. Piling up log after log, the embers burned hot - simply waiting for the gust of air to ignite it into a towering inferno.

Jon has chosen duty over all else for so long. No matter what. Duty was all that mattered, he swore a vow and he’d keep his word. Just like his father always did. After all, Jon always wanted at least to be half the man his father was. 

What would the honorable Ned Stark do if he was in Jon’s position? A great question with no answer. 

The crunching of snow had Jon snapping his head behind him to see the Red Woman approaching. If the sheer edge wasn’t directly behind him he might’ve backed way up. The dropoff prevented his retreat.

“My Lady,” he said, tone respectful even though he felt it not. “What are you doing up here?”

“I’ve come to see about you, Jon Snow,” Melisandre replied, moving into his space. She crowded him near the edge. Her eyes scanned his form up and down, her mere presence unnerved Jon. Even in the cold, her body gave off a warmth he didn’t understand. Her loose fitting gown didn’t seem like enough to keep her comfortable this far north, but clearly, the weather had no effect on her.

“Why?” Jon can only utter.

“The Lord of Light pointed you out to me.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Aren’t you cold, My Lady?” Jon said, motioning to her gown.

“The Lord keeps me warm.”

“I know what his Grace wants from me, Lady Melisandre, but…” Grey peered into crimson, Jon’s eyes searching the red priestess before him for answers. “What do you want from me?” 

Melisande’s head went cocked to the side, “When King Stannis departs of Castle Black… you will be at his side. You will be with him for the great victory in the snow. For many victories to come, side by side with your family as you gaze upon the vanquished from above.”

Eyes widening to their maximum, Jon slowly gasped. It’s as if she made the decision for him.

Melisandre smiled, not breaking their joined gaze. “You have a good heart, Jon Snow.” Her tone was definitive… as if she knew the future. Knew what he would end in choosing. “A blessed heart. I know not the answers no more than yourself - but I know the journey. And it begins with you.” With that, Melisandre turned and made her way back to the elevator, leaving Jon and Ghost to the solitude of the highest point in Westeros.

Mind still contemplating, Jon looked back to the darkness. The decision he needed to make didn’t come quickly. But it came all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you did enjoy that. We have all kinds of things planned, we're super excited. 
> 
> Do leave a comment and give us your thoughts. We want to know what you thought even if it's just two words, to those people who write paragraphs... you rock. I or Longclaw will probably respond if you have any questions. But lemme just see if I can guess a few of them right now.
> 
> Yes, this is Jonerys story and we fully committed to that. We've already got all kinds of stuff planned for the pair of them. That being said, it is a eventual romance. We, like you, were also starved of Jonerys in the show and we do want more. We plan on giving lots of it, but we won't jump right into because that doesn't make any sense. The story will progress and they will meet.
> 
> If you like Stannis, strap in. Because we also like him. Plenty of Stannis to go around here.
> 
> Both of us have other running stories, we are fully committed to those. But also to this. Updates will be coming, but idk what kind of pace.
> 
> Be sure to check out our other stories: An Empire of Ice and Fire for Longclaw and To Catch a Dream by BRuh4
> 
> Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it. 
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, and bookmarks. 
> 
> Tell your friends.


	2. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets with Stannis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw here. Wow, the reception for this has been amazing. All y'all are great, and we thank you for the support!
> 
> BRuh4 here. Thanks to every single person who checked this out, it means a lot to us that you did. This idea came to me and I didn't think too much about it at the time, but from later reflection, it sounded so cool. Now, it's spawned into this great big story that we've got planned. We're so excited to share it with you.
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! :D

"I see that you have considered my offer," Stannis stated, leaning forward in his chair. Nothing had been said, but he looked supremely confident - if dour. "So what is your answer, Jon Snow?"

Having slept on it, the Bastard of Winterfell no longer wanted to be referred to as such. Also, his hunger for justice had grown. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted justice for his family. "Your offer was generous, your Grace. It is my honor to accept."

Davos couldn't help the smile on his face. The brooding northerner had made quite the impression on him in the last weeks. "You made the right decision, young Stark." The change in title was not lost on anyone present. "Together, we will avenge your family and bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon returned the smile, though it only half reached his eyes. "I hope so, Ser Davos… or should I say, Lord Hand?" At Davos' answering nod, Jon turned at his new King - the man he'd be serving for as long as time would be. "I'm unsure of how this would proceed, your Grace."

Stannis only grumbled in response but rose from his chair. He held his hand out to Davos waiting in the wings, who clutched his King's blade. Ser Davos unsheathed the sword, the steel glinted in the light. He knelt and passed it to Stannis. "Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, do you pledge your loyalty to me as the rightful King of Westeros?"

Blinking, Jon saw in the edge of his vision Davos miming downward. Without further hesitation, he knelt to the floor. Longclaw exited its scabbard, Jon resting his forehead on its hilt as he bent the knee. "I, Jon Snow, do pledge my loyalty to Stannis of House Baratheon, First of his Name. Rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the Realm."

Allowing himself a look of triumph - allies few and far between since the defeat at Blackwater Bay, at this very moment he had secured the most prized victory since turning the majority of Renly's forces - Stannis brought the sword to touch the bastard's shoulder. "Rise, Jon of House Stark. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

A shuddering breath left Jon's mouth, standing proved more difficult than he had hoped.

He knelt a Bastard. A person lower than the low, looked down upon, spat and stepped over. Worthy of no lands, no titles, no children of his own, known as a stain upon Ned Stark's shiny, honorable name.

But he rose a Stark. A Lord. The Lord of Winterfell, The future Warden of the North, everything he's ever wanted and more. He couldn't help but smile. Wiping a singular tear that formed in his eye, he stood tall.

Davos stepped over, putting his hand on Jon's shoulder, "You deserve this, Jon."

Stannis grunted, "Now, go talk to your wildling friends, we must ride out soon." He leaned in close to Jon, "I need those wildlings. If they fight with me, here and now, when the North is won I'll give them all lands to hold."

Jon nodded, "It will be done, Your Grace."

"Good."

\---------------------------------------

After his legitimization, Jon went directly to find Tormund. He was still being held prisoner, so he's not hard to locate.

Jon closed the door behind him, moving into the room where Tormund sat, tied to a post.

"Ah… Crow," Tormund snorted. "Why have you come?"

"Can you lead the Freefolk?" Jon said, simply. Moving in close to the wildling man, looking down at him.

"Me? Ha," Tormund chuckled, shaking slightly.

"You have an opportunity, Tormund. You all do. You should take it," Jon replied.

"Kneeling… if Mance didn't you think the rest of us will?"

Jon crouched down to look Tormund in the eye, "I'm not asking you to kneel. I'm asking you to fight."

"Fight?"

"With Stannis."

Tormund frowned and spat on Jon's boot, "Fuck you." He seethed.

Jon sighed, he stood up and walked over to one of the small windows nearby. One of the only ways light was allowed into the room. He leaned against the wall, and said, "Put aside your pride, this is about survival. Out there…" Jon pointed to the wall, "Out there your people will die. Stannis has offered to give you lands on the south side of the wall. You can live. You can all live. This is your only chance."

"What makes you fucking think that the southern prick would honor his word?"

"Because he proved it to me." Tormund stared at him as if waiting for an explanation. "He promised that if I swore to him, he'd legitimize me. I did, and he did."

A guttural laugh left Tormund. "I remember you spilling your guts about being a bastard, whatever that was. Thought it gave you some guts… but now you're just like all those other prick Lords."

"I doubt all those prick Lords, as you call them, lived among you. I actually care about what happens to you. Stannis is the best you'll get because I am with him."

Still grumbling, Tormund turned the other cheek.

"As I said, I'm asking you to fight. Which you're very good at, I'm not asking you to kneel for Stannis."

"He wanted Mance to kneel," Tormund responded.

"He just wants your people to fight for him. He needs men. How many fighting men do you have?"

"Here? None. Everyone is probably regrouping at Hardhome," Tormund said, eyes returning to Jon.

"Hardhome? That's where they're all holed up?" Jon frowned, moving off the wall. Tormund slowly nodded with an accompanied grunt. He crouched back down, "How many of the Freefolk are at Hardhome?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Fuck off, Crow."

Jon exhaled heavily, "Tormund, listen to me, if your people don't get South of the wall, they will all die. Do you understand? We both know what's coming."

"I'd rather die than fight for your southern King!" Tormund lashed forward, but his body didn't move much. Jon didn't even flinch.

"You Freefolk are too proud," Jon hung his head, for a few moments. When he looked back up, he said, "I told you. This is your only chance. Fight with Stannis, and I'll protect you. I'll make sure you get your land."

"How can believe anything a Crow says?"

"Because I honor my word. Stannis isn't from the North. But I am, he will trust me on the North," Jon replied.

Tormund sighed, shaking his head back and forth, clearly contemplating the choice before him. "The Freefolk followed Mance. They won't follow anyone else."

"Not you?"

"It's hard to do anything chained to a post."

"What if I unchained you?"

"Why'd you do that? How you know I won't bash your skull in?"

Jon rested his palm on Longclaw, "You wouldn't have the chance. Besides, you are not my enemy."

"You sure look like an enemy to me," Tormund growled, trying to lash forward again.

"For the whole history of the Night's Watch, they've held the Freefolk out from this side of the wall. Our words are, 'We are the shield that guards the realms of men.' We betrayed that oath. You are your people belong on this side of the wall, you are a part of the realms of men, just because you were born on the wrong side doesn't mean you have to die there," Jon explains, keeping his voice as level as possible.

Tormund's expression softened, "You want me to ask my people to fight alongside a Crow? That's a death sentence."

"You are condemning all of your own people to death," Jon breathed out, frustration flaring up. "What of the women? The children? The elderly and sick? They're all supposed to die? Why? Because you won't make peace? Maybe you're just a coward after all."

Eyes widened in anger, Tormund slowly pushed himself up on the pole until he stood. He growled, "Easy thing to say to a man chained to a post."

Jon withdrew the keys from inside his cloak, sweeping around behind Tormund, he unlocked the chains. They clattered to the floor, the Wildling man rubbed his wrists as he turned to face Jon. For a moment they just stared at each other, Jon kept his hand on Longclaw.

"Your people are in danger, they need a leader and they need to get south of the wall. The walkers will get to them first. I can get you to passage to Hardhome, you can be there in a week. Find your people and bring them back here. Don't make peace to save yourself… make peace to save your people."

Tormund rolled his shoulders back, fists clenched, eyes fleeting over Jon's face. Searching for something give him any reason to believe Jon's lying. The decision became clear, even though he didn't like it.

"We'll need ships."

Jon slowly nodded, "I can ask the King."

"If I go… You go. They have to hear it from your mouth. So they know the ships they're boarding won't be torched the second they set sail. You're coming with me, or I don't go."

Jon frowned but nodded.

\----------------------------------------

"And the oathbreaker reveals himself." Normally quiet and brooding, Jon allowed himself a feeling of smugness as he gazed upon the upper echelon of the Night's Watch. Who, since the death of Lord Commander Mormont only had one ally of his… Maester Aemon. The rest hated his guts. "I always knew you were no proper brother of the Watch," Janos Slynt hissed.

Glancing at Davos, who had the same disgust for the poor excuse of a lord before them, Jon shrugged. "Well if you are the epitome of a proper brother. I weep for the Watch. Castle Black won't stand a chance with its brothers pissing their trousers in the cellar."

Slynt rose out of his chair in a fury… "Sit down!" Thorne was no friend of Jon's, but it was clear he thought the insults were pointless. The former Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing - a title he had no qualms bragging about till he turned blue - fumed, but obeyed. "But Brother Slynt is right, Snow. You did break your oath and could be put to death."

"Pardon, Lord Commander." Without opposition, Thorne had won easily. Davos gave him deference just for said title. "Jon is a Stark. He was legitimized by the true King of Westeros…"

"True King or not, Jon Stark." Thorne spat out the name. "Is under our control. We no know kings, just the brotherhood that has existed for thousands of years."

"A brotherhood dependent on said kings for men and supplies. And on King Stannis specifically for saving you when Mance regrouped that fateful night. Where would you be had he not? In a Thenn's stomach?" Jon smirked, glad he and Sam had coached the Hand in his wildling terminology. "You owe Stannis, and all he asks at this point is for Jon."

The various leaders spoke to each other in hushed tones, discussing it for themselves. Leaving the two men swaying in the wind, uncomfortable. Finally, it was Maester Aemon that spoke. "Jon Stark, you intend to be Lord of Winterfell, correct?"

"That is correct, Maester Aemon." Jon gave the kindly old Targaryen a special reverence. One he had earned.

"When you retake Winterfell, may we expect more supplies to restock what we lost?"

Retake Winterfell, that's all Jon can see, his blood burned. If he had to brave every blizzard the North threw at him, he'd pay the Boltons back for what they did to his family. For their treachery. For Sansa. "You have my word."

"Gods know how much that is worth," Slynt muttered.

Stroking his chin, Thorne looked at Jon. Slowly, a satisfied grin came over his face. "I've been wanting you gone from the beginning, Snow. I don't care what fancy title you think you have - you'll always be a troublemaking bastard of a family of traitors."

The First Builder piped up. "Alliser, the Night's Watch has not survived for so long by letting its brothers out of their vows…"

"Shut up." Thorne narrowed his eyes at Jon. "You would have been the death of the brotherhood. I am saving it by letting you go." He battered him off with his hands. "You are released from your vows. Go. Take your Southern King and never come here again!" A fire burned in his eyes, spitting venom at Jon…

But it did not affect the young lad. Nothing could. He had so long worn his status as a bastard as armor, but he no longer needed to. This meeting was somewhat of a formality anyway, Stannis had pardoned him.

He was Jon Stark. Scion of the greatest family in the North. No one, least of all bitter, insignificant men like Alliser Thorne, could pierce his new armor.

Bowing shallowly, Jon addressed his former commander. "As you say, Lord Commander." Jon could let him have his insults and anger. He had his freedom, and such was worth far more.

\----------------------------------

Jon entered the solar into the waiting gaze of Stannis, his new King. Davos stood behind him as always, and Melisandre stood next to the door like before.

It was Davos that greeted him first. "The new look suits you, Lord Stark." Jon smiled softly in thanks. He had finally taken the time to shed his Night's Watch black, Sam and Edd having procured him a more proper fur cloak befitting his status. "Good news. We sent ravens announcing your new claim to the Northern houses. House Mormont and the Mountain clans are supportive of swearing allegiance to House Stark.

"Good, but not enough. You have my wildling army?" Stannis asked, with the same hard expression. The King was a dour one, moments of levity few and far between. Only the Lady Shireen seemed to invoke joy in Stannis Baratheon, from what Jon observed.

Stepping up, Jon cleared his throat, "Your Grace, I spoke with the Wildling, Tormund. I told him your offer."

"And?"

"He told me that the majority of the Wildling likely retreated to Hardhome," Jon replied, with a sigh.

Davos spoke up, "So, what does that mean for us?"

"Well, I wanted Tormund to go up there and get them, for their safety," Jon said.

"To come fight," Stannis inserted.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"I sense there is an issue," Davos sighed, glancing between his King and Jon.

"Yes, Tormund said the only way he would was if I went with him, as to reassure the Freefolk that your promises are real," Jon explained.

The new Stark winced as Stannis' expression stiffened, "What? Do they not trust the word of a King?"

"The Freefolk don't have a good history with Kings, Your Grace." Jon had to put this as delicately as possible. Men like Stannis were loyal, but delicacy was needed if counsel was to be appreciated. "Mance was only able to unite them through feats of courage and strength… and even that was from pure necessity."

Pursing his lips, Stannis leaned back in his chair. "So what does that mean for me?"

"I believe it would be helpful for you to come with me to Hardhome." Jon winced as the King bristled.

With a scoff, Stannis crossed his arms, "Me? Go beyond the wall?"

"If I may, your Grace." By Davos' expression, he felt Jon was correct in the assessment - it emboldened him to press on. "The Wildlings are not of the Seven Kingdoms. You are not taking what is rightfully yours, but expanding the reach of your domain. Perhaps it would be proper to convince your prospective subjects of why they should accept your rule?"

"More like," Ser Davos started. "Your Grace, I think these… wildlings might need a true King there to further bolster their feelings about coming south."

"Hmm… I see," Stannis replied, stroking his hairy chin. "But that could take weeks. I need to march back south now."

"Well, Your Grace, if you leave now, it'll be without the Freefolk," Jon replied, desperately trying not to sound disrespectful.

"I agree, Your Grace," Ser Davos said, nodding towards Jon. "The addition of the wildlings to our force would make quite the difference."

"How many of them are there?" Stannis asked, directed at Jon.

"Not sure, Your Grace. There are men, women, and children," Jon shrugged slightly. "Fighting men and women? A few thousand at least… if not more. Warriors that are experts at fighting in winter conditions."

Stannis glanced at Davos with raised eyebrows, seemingly pleased. The Onion Knight nodded encouragingly, and said, "You've done well, Jon Stark."

Hearing his name spoken like that, Jon felt his knees weaken. He strengthened his resolve as to not look ridiculous. The Red Woman moved behind him, causing him to turn his head to her. She ambled over near him, so close her nose brushed against his ear. Stannis and Davos both appeared confused by the advance. Jon recoiled from her, "My Lady?"

Eye seeming redder and redder by the passing seconds, Melisandre reached out and cupped Jon's cheek with her left hand. He wanted to back up further, but he felt locked in place.

"I see a darkness in you… but there's also light. A fire," Melisandre told him. "You have a role to play, an important one. The choices you make moving forward will be the most vital of your life, and those choices will change everything."

"My Lady?" Jon frowned, face contorting in utter confusion. Melisandre's mouth locked down, but she smiled. Making no intentions of responding, she backed up into her corner.

Sensing the tension… the confusion, Davos interjected. "Alright. Let's get back to it."

Looking puzzled himself, Stannis seemed to deflate. "Fine. If I must go to Hardhome, then go I shall." He wryly chuckled. "I expect the fools will write songs for thousands of years of how King Stannis Baratheon tamed the wildlings." Preening aside, Jon allowed himself a smile. All that was left now was getting the approval of the wildling clans.

His smile fell at the thought. Perhaps Stannis' presence will help… perhaps not. 'It's possible that the wildlings will altogether refuse.'

\----------------------------------------

Jon knocked on the door before him, waiting patiently for allowance to enter. Maester Aemon's small voice called out to him, "Come in." Instead of going through the door himself, it was opened for him. Suddenly, Jon is faced with the smiling face of Sam.

"Hello, Jon."

"Sam?" He probably shouldn't be surprised to see Sam, but nonetheless, he is. "Helping the Maester with his dispatches, I see."

Aemon gave him a toothless smile. "Never go blind, Lord Stark. Even though I've gotten used to it, I wouldn't recommend it."

"I'll… keep that in mind." No matter how happy he was that he was now the legitimate son of Ned Stark, being called that still felt weird to him - as if he was… incomplete. It's oddly ironic, a name had been the reason for a lot of his misfortune. Now, the name he wished for all along has been given to him. He thought it'd give me peace, comfort. In a way, it does. But at the same time, he doesn't feel any different. "I shall be heading to Eastwatch on the morrow with his Grace."

Sam blinked while Aemon was impassive. "Oh… King Stannis wishes to sail somewhere?"

"Aye, to Hardhome. I've convinced him to join me and Tormund in trying to convince the Wildlings to journey south of the wall. To fight for him in exchange for land and safety."

Clicking his tongue, Sam looked worried. "Thorne won't like that."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Thorne can kiss my ass as far as I'm concerned, besides, he has little say on the matter." Normally he'd never say that out loud, but being Lord Stark left him with an armor not easily pierced. "If he has a problem, he can take it up with his Grace."

"The wildlings bow for no man." Both looked to Aemon, who had broken his silence. "They will not easily surrender their freedom, even for safety."

"I hope they would. They don't really have a choice." He and Sam shared a shudder. Each had come face to face with the face of death - Sam even moreso. Suddenly, emotion started to well up inside him. "In any case… this will be goodbye."

Sam pulled his friend into an embrace. "Goodbye, Jon. Gilly and I will keep a cot warm for when you visit from Winterfell."

"I'll appreciate that, Sam. There's no one who's knowledge I would hold a greater trust." Sharing one last smile with his friend, Jon looked at Aemon. A tired smile stretched out over his wrinkled face, violet eyes sparkling with emotion. "Goodbye Maester. Your advice and counsel kept me going through my first years here."

Aemon clasped his hand. "You remind me so much of my brother, Lord Stark. Honorable and… simply good. A noble heart. One last word of advice… no matter what comes your way, do not lose it."

Jon nodded. "I won't." And he meant it. Without another word, he left.

Moments later he had returned to his quarters, his feet felt heavy, body even more. His space has been sparse for his entire time at Castle Black. Just a bed, and a few other small pieces of furniture, in slow, ambled steps, he approached his bed. It felt appropriate to shed his thick cloak, being as by the morning tomorrow he'd no longer call himself a man of the Night's Watch. Normally something like that could cost him his head. It didn't feel right that he's likely getting Winterfell for deserting the Night's Watch. He'd watched a man executed by his own Lord Father for the same crime.

Leaving doesn't feel easy, though it is, physically at least. Tomorrow, he'll leave in the company of a King. A King he'd just sworn his life, not unlike what he'd done in front of a heart tree just outside the Wall. He's getting out of that oath. Honestly, he's betraying that oath, breaking it. He wondered if he'd be called 'Oathbreaker' now. He remembered many people calling Jaime Lannister a Kingslayer at Winterfell. That's not an existence Jon's envies.

All these thoughts swirling through his mind, regret lingering on the edge of his tongue. Though he swallowed it down. This is a choice he made. The choice he made, and at the very least he'd stick to it. For his family.

With a stern look about his face, he unclasped the cloak. It fell from his shoulders swiftly. Like a weight lifted off, breathing came easier.

The very same cloak he'd dawned for many months now. It was his comfort, his safety. But also a prison, a symbol of his captivity at Castle Black.

Sleep came to him quicker than it had since his days living in Winterfell.

He was free now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jon is now Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Forgive me for saying that that sounds freaking badass.
> 
> Daenerys will play a huge part in the story, but as we've said before, the first grouping of chapters will be more about what happens in the North, though there will be snapshots of major events in both Meereen and King's Landing.
> 
> The scene at the end with Jon is sort of the whole theme of this story. We decided early on that the non-Jonerys moments would largely center on Jon and what he'd do if he got the Stark name (unless we change it up, y'all can make the assumption that Dany's character arc is the same as canon until she arrives in Westeros). I wanted to make sure that this accurately depicted his feelings on it. He's still a bit conflicted, but also he feels like this was the thing to do. In canon, he refused Stannis because of his vows to the Night's Watch. We had to reference that but also made sure that didn't keep him at Castle Black. The physical shedding of the cloak is symbolic for the weight of his vows lifting off his shoulders. Now, he can breathe easy.
> 
> Next up, we catch a glimpse of Bolton Winterfell. Plus perhaps a certain silver-haired queen gets a small cameo appearance ;)
> 
> Be sure to check out our other stories: An Empire of Ice and Fire for Longclaw and To Catch a Dream by BRuh4.
> 
> Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it.
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, bookmarks.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	3. Lord Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North reacts to the event up at Castle Black as Stannis and his forces depart for Eastwatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: This was a fun one to write. This kinda a hallmark chapter, it got some really important moments in it. See if you can pick them out after you read it. There are two things, in particular, I think. 
> 
> We're really excited about all the things we're gonna do with this. We even talked about some specific moments coming up that we are super pumped to share with you all. It's gonna be epic. 
> 
> Longclaw here. All of you are amazing! Our plan is threefold with this story's plot: 1) do a unique version of Jon's character arc that still is an in character portrayal, 2) expand on Stannis' backstory, since his death at Winterfell was kinda rushed and weak for such an important character, and 3) do a unique version of how Jonerys comes to be. We're both really excited and eager to see what all y'all think!
> 
> Anyhoo, enjoy this one.
> 
> Trigger warning btw, you’ll know it when you see it (cough, Ramsay, cough).

 

“Jon Snow? Ned Stark’s bastard?”

 

Roose Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, grumbled with a nod, “That what the report says.”

 

“Legitimized, and riding with Stannis Baratheon?” Ramsay Bolton - formally Ramsay Snow - half-laughed. “A bastard leading southerners from the Stormlands. Quite pathetic.”

 

“As opposed to northerners being led by a bastard?” Ramsay’s lips pursed at the acidic comment. Roose Bolton may have been considered as cold as the ocean gales that slammed against the Dreadfort in winter, but there was a cruel streak underneath those haunting eyes. “Never forget your place. You are my son, but born a bastard nonetheless. If you can rise, he can rise.”

 

Crossing his arms, Ramsay spat on the floor. “Stannis is a usurper. A failed one at that. No one will recognize Jon Snow’s legitimacy.” His disgust is apparent about his countenance.

 

“House Mormont did, as did the mountain clans. House Manderly and Glover have declared neutrality.” Roose sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Southern Kings matter not in the North, they are interchangeable. Tommen isn’t here, while Stannis is. That means more to the Northern houses.”

 

“Doesn’t matter, we still have Karstark and Umber,” Ramsay retorted. “And most importantly…” He opened his arms, “Winterfell is ours.”

 

Roose didn’t share his optimism. “Now we just have to keep it.”

 

“Their army is a Southern one… ours has fought in the North their entire lives. They don’t stand a chance.”

 

“This… Jon Snow troubles me,” Roose shook his head. “The Northern houses may cling to him, and all I have heard from the Wall have described him as an excellent fighter.”

 

“Wildlings are not our elite Bolton hoplites, father. How hard is it to defend a massive fortification against savages?” He placed his arms on the table. “Give me full command, and I’ll build our defenses impregnable to any southern assault.”

 

While he valued thinking cautiously, Roose seemed to admire his former bastard’s tenacity. “You know what they say about defense, my son? That the best is a good offense.”

 

A malevolent grin spread across Ramsay’s face. “Who said anything about staying on the defensive?” He leaned back. “Our blades are sharp. We should use them.”

 

“You think less of Stannis Baratheon,” Roose pointed out. “The man is a seasoned military commander. Yes, I know he lost at Blackwater Bay, but his record shows more victories than losses. Your confidence might be misplaced.”

 

“Just wait, Father. I’ll show you.”

 

Roose waved his hand at his son, “We have to be smart, cunning. If not our reign over the North may be short.”

 

“Don’t worry, Father. I’ll---”

 

“Just listen for starters,” Roose cut in. “Your new wife, Sansa, she spent years with this Jon Snow. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

 

A crooked smile came upon Ramsay’s face, knowing exactly what his father was inferring. “Oh… That I can do.”   
  


“We’ll know more about Stannis’ movements soon, but Jon Snow… is unexpected,” Roose frowned.

 

“I’ll take care of it.”

 

“See that you do. My lady wife is pregnant, just so you know the consequences of displeasing me.”

 

Something dark flashed in Ramsay’s eyes, before he offered a small smile. “I understand... crystal clear, father.”

 

“Go see about your wife,” Roose sighed. “Just keep her alive and breathing, she does have to produce a baby still.” He stood up and left.

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time, Winterfell represented nothing but safety and warmth. King’s Landing represented brutality. Agony. Death. Long had dreams of returning to Winterfell had been her salvation. What she had longed for every day of every year. Oh, how wrong she had been. Instead of her childhood home being a safe haven it’s a place of paranoia. She has to be careful, like walking on shells. Any wrong move and her skin may become bloody. Not something she ever imagined she’d experience in Winterfell.

 

The life of Sansa Stark had only gotten worse and worse over time. She was forced into a marriage with a monster. Ramsay treated her worse than trash, taking her whenever he pleased and not caring what she thought - no, he did care. He preferred it when she hated it. When her body reacted to him with revulsion, which it now did. Every single time. 

 

Fighting became a worthless endeavor - it only made him angry. Therefore making it worse for her. He beat her, abused her, and raped her. More times than she could count, or even try to remember. The type of experiences either utterly destroyed a person or strengthened their resolve. At that point, lying in the bed and feeling her heart thump out of her chest at every creak in the floorboards, Sansa wasn’t sure which would come to pass for her.

 

Existence was pain. Death was relief.

 

She didn’t want to die… At least that was one point toward strengthening resolve. Now, she just felt numb. In a way that was better, being able to tune it out, but sometimes that didn’t work. After each encounter finally finished, when he had his fill after entering her over and over, he took a piece of her. Repeating thing every other day or so for a month, Sansa wasn’t sure how of her is left. 

 

Ramsay took pleasure in it. 

 

Any little thing can set him off. Sometimes he’ll just hit because she’s being too quiet or too sullen. Even doing nothing can get her in trouble.

 

_ Thud. Thud. Thud. _

 

Her eyes widened, each resounding thump of booted feet on the wooden floors sending a stab of fear through her very soul. Part of her wanted to hide, but that would only make it worse. The less she resisted, the sooner it would finish. She murmured to herself so quietly, praying the Gods would protect her, it was almost a silent plea. Not that the Gods had ever protected her before, she’s just resorting to anything to shield herself. She’d do anything to spare herself any more pain.

 

She almost let out a sigh of relief as it was only Theon that opened the door. Sansa wanted to hate him, but there was some comfort in having someone that was familiar - even if Ramsay had broken him as well. Looking up to say something, she stilled at the fear in his eyes. And remorse… apology. 

 

“Hello, lady wife!” Lips curled in a wide grin, Ramsay appeared from behind Theon, sounding quite cheery. This was not going to be good. “I hope you are relaxing well this fine afternoon.” Still grinning, he took a chair, turned it around, and sat with his hands leaning on the back. “How about we have a chat?” This was not at all going to be good. 

 

“And what would you like to talk about, husband?” She would not give him the satisfaction of showing her fear. Theon hung his head, closing the door behind him, remaining there to be called upon by his master.

 

Normally, Ramsay would play games with her… but he was in a hurry, so he got to the meat of the matter. “We received word from Castle Black.” Sansa’s face was impassive. “Seems your brother has been making waves.”

 

Inwardly, Sansa did a double take. She hadn’t heard much about her dear brother. Only that he was up at Castle Black doing whatever it is men of the Night’s Watch do. She decided to feign ignorance. 

 

“Oh? I forgot he existed.” 

 

Ramsay laughed, he’s far too smart, seeing right through her lie. “I doubt that, but that’s not important. My father’s sources told us of him bending the knee to Stannis Baratheon… and rising as Jon Stark.”

 

Now that surprised her, it was physically impossible not to have physically reaction. Though she tried in vain, her bottom lip involuntarily twitched into a smirk. Her mind swirling with memories of being awful to Jon, largely following her mother’s lead. It all seemed so alien to her now. Why would she act so horribly to him? He didn’t do a thing to her. 

 

She wished she could take it all back. 

 

She just wanted to be like her mother. Earn her approval and be the perfect Tully lady. Wanting such different things back then, it was so ironic now. Before she would’ve done anything to just be in Joffery’s presence. Now, she just wanted some safety… some semblance of it. 

 

All of this flashed in her mind in a split second… and after that moment passed, it was time to reap the whirlwind.

 

“That amuses you, wife?” Ramsay asked, lowering his tone. Apparently, he had noticed her smirk. Typically this meant in the next few seconds he would hit her. She was rarely allowed to smile, not that she ever felt the need to anymore.

 

As quick as she could, she buried any and all emotion, reverting back to her broken self. The shortness of that smile gave her some life though, wishing it could’ve been longer. In truth, she was quite happy for Jon. Being a Stark was something he’d always wanted. Her other siblings always treated him that way anyway - she hoped that was enough for him then.

 

The knowledge excited her a little, though unaware of the implications of it. What were Jon’s plans now?

 

She wondered if he’d come to rescue her. The thought was pleasant but fleeting. 

 

“No… Of course not,” she said, hanging her head in an attempt to her hind her evident excitement.

 

“Oh, I see,” Ramsay chuckled. Sansa heard the chair he sat in skid away against the stone floor. 

 

He was coming over to her.

 

Her head stays down as Ramsay’s fingers loop through her locks, pulling her head up to meet his gaze. She closed her eyes as the tears began to form. “Look at me.” He commanded, but she refused. His hand collided with her cheek, “Look at me!”

 

Reluctantly, Sansa’s lids rose up to see his intense glare, her cheek heating up. His hand pulled harder on her hair. Instinctively her hands go up to grip his, trying to loosen his grasp. Ramsay took offense to this, thus slapping her again. Forcing her hands to fall to her sides, forgetting the fruitlessness of fighting back.

 

Ramsay will do whatever he wants to her and she’s can do nothing to stop him.

 

Alone, at least.

 

He growled at her, “You think that your bastard brother is going to come to save you? Rescue you?” He laughed darkly. “You hear that Reek?” Ramsay asked the man formerly known as Theon Greyjoy. “She thinks Jon fucking Snow is coming down from the Wall like a knight in shining armor. Don’t get your hopes up, sweet wife.” His other hand goes to her neck, forcing her to face him directly, “I’ll make sure he dies right in front of you. Would you like that?”

 

Sansa attempted to rise from her chair, but Ramsay reacted by kicking her knee. Making her go back down to a sitting position, with his fist wrapping tighter and tighter in her tresses. Tears fully flowing now, Sansa had no control over them. Her eyes expelled the emotion like a running stream. Ramsay enjoyed watching her cry, it’s just fuel to his ire. That’s kind of reaction is what he wants… exactly what he  _ needs  _ from her. So, he started to pull even harder on her hair, he wanted her scalp to bleed. 

 

“I own you… you understand that?” Ramsay gritted his teeth. “You’re mine. Never forget that.”

 

For some reason, Sansa decided to retort, “You… don’t. You never have, you never will.” A gasp of strength - she was Sansa Stark, a wolf of Winterfell. One that even the highest-born Bolton would bow to.

 

Ramsay scoffed, somewhat surprised at her sudden confidence. Still, he punched her in the stomach for her outburst. Knocking the wind out of her, all the air retreating from her lungs. She wheezed, trying to remember how to breathe. 

 

“Tell me about your brother.” He ordered, no more room for outbursts or disobedience. 

 

In all honesty, she didn’t quite know what to say because she really doesn’t know all that much about Jon. They really never spent that much time together. She heard glimpses from Robb and Arya, she never experienced anything worth remembering herself.

 

They weren’t close.

 

That doesn’t mean if he was here right now she wouldn’t hug him until he couldn’t breathe. Sort of like herself after being punched by Ramsay Bolton.

 

“Tell me!” He repeated himself, giving her another firm slap to the face. She forgot he really doesn’t like having to say things twice. “His weaknesses, what he hates, what he loves. Anything.”

 

“I… don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know?” Ramsay snarled. Now his hand goes to her neck, tightening his grip, her windpipe closed. “You don’t know?” Her eyes roll back, yet her hands attached to his wrist. She tries to get him to let go, after it became apparent that he isn’t letting up her hands fall away. In fact, she seems at peace, even serene. Her eyes fall fully closed and she stopped fighting. Both her husband’s hands went to her throat now, with so much force Sansa is brought to her knees. His statue towering over her as it all blacked out for her. If Ramsay hadn’t needed something from her he may have choked her to death. After a few moments, he released her completely. 

 

Sansa fell on her back, coughing, gasping for air.

 

Ramsay turns around to the table, grabbing a goblet and the flagon of wine. He poured himself a healthy portion and drank it down eagerly. Preparing to repeat the process as Sansa gets to her feet. Her face is reddened, eyes bloodshot for the lack of oxygen. She was literally seconds away from falling completely into darkness, never to return. It almost seemed like mercy given the circumstances and she welcomed it. It just so happened that her damn husband didn’t feel like it.

 

Theon still stood by the door, having seen these things happen time and time again. And every time he’d stand by the door, and do nothing. A part of him wished he could surge forward and do something. Help Sansa somehow. But the other part was far too scared. The other part of him had it’s way most of the time. 

 

Ramsay swallowed some wine down, staring at his wife, “Tell me about your brother.” He said when he’s finished.

 

Instead of responding right away, Sansa rubbed her neck, feeling the red marks that resided there and would stay for days to come. Still having trouble breathing, she sat back down.

 

“Wife,” Ramsay sighed heavily. “I do grow tired of this.”

 

“My brother,” she finally spoke up, through ragged breathing. “Was always quiet… reserved to himself. I was always cruel to him, he never returned my hatred. Honestly, I never knew all that much about him. Though I do know this… if he knows I’m here… he will come for me. It doesn’t matter how I treated him, that’s the kind of person Jon is.”

 

Sighing again, Ramsay banged the goblet against the table a few times. Saying, “What a nice sentiment, dear wife.” Then he tossed the cup across the room, wine spraying against the wall. He came directing at Sansa, he slapped her again. She fell to the floor but he picked her right back up immediately. He held her close to his face, “Why is that you always feel the need to defy me? I’m your husband, can’t you give me what I want? Be loyal to me?”

 

“I’ll never,” Sansa growled with some tenacity, an air of finality. “You’re a monster.”

 

He grinned, “Oh… yes. I know.” Ramsay looked back. “Reek, watch this. It’s gonna be quite the show.”

 

With that, he threw her onto the bed. Knowing what was coming, Sansa tried to scamper away, but he grabbed her by the legs and pulled her back to him. When she continued to fight, he delivered a fist to her face. A blow with so much force her ears began to ring, head falling back. Surely, her eye would swell up. Even now her vision blurred as he laid her on her back. It’s clear that she won’t remember all that comes next, that may be a good thing. It’s nothing new to her, apparently, this is normal now.

 

As his weight fell on her, she passed out.

 

Theon, as he had been for weeks now, watched a girl he knew his entire life be ravaged savagely. Even though Sansa’s mind is knocked out, her body is awake. Her small cries will be stuck in his ears for hours to come, just like the image will be burned into his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Under the ever-present and watchful gaze of the newly anointed Lord Commander, Jon Stark prepared to leave Castle Black with Stannis and his people in the morning. The Stag King had shared some choice words about coming back through the Wall with the Wildlings in the coming weeks that left no room for discussion. Lord Commander Thorne only gave a short nod as confirmation, thoughts swirling through his brain if he were to refuse. He remembered Mance Rayder burning just as much as anyone else.  

 

As they spoke, Jon stood by his horse, stuffing what little possessions he had into the saddlebags. He felt the presence of someone approaching him from behind. He turned to see the ever solemn expression of Edd.

 

“Come to see me off?” Jon asked, raising his eyebrows.

 

Edd shrugged, “Something like that.” Though he smirked when Jon came over to embrace him.

 

“Same old Edd,” Jon laughed. Patting his friend on the back before he backed up. “Never change, my friend.”

 

“I haven’t yet, why start now?”

 

Jon sighed, the one thing always enjoyed being at Castle Black being the camaraderie with his brothers. He would miss them. All of them, even if a few of them didn’t particularly like him. Had Stannis never arrived at Castle Black, he imagined he would’ve stayed here until he was as old as Maester Aemon. 

 

Perhaps, deep down, he was glad for Stannis’ offer.

 

“Where’s your cloak?” Edd inquired, frowning. “It’s cold out here.”

 

Chuckling, Jon raised his hands in the air, appearing comfortable, “I took it off. Being as I don't much need it anymore. I’m sure I get another one at some point.”

 

“That doesn’t change the fact that it’s fucking cold.” Edd jeered.

 

“Somehow, I don’t much feel it.” Jon replied, climbing on his horse, looking down at Edd, “Don’t worry Edd, hopefully, I’ll see you again in a few weeks.”

 

His good friend's expression darkened slightly, Edd’s eyes glanced away from Jon for a moment, unable to hide his disgust with the thought of Wildlings coming through the Wall. Something the Night’s Watch had fought to prevent for thousands of years. It didn’t seem right to him. Finally, he looked up at Jon, “Aye, maybe I will.” Then, he turned and walked away from Jon.

 

The new Stark’s frowned at Edd’s sudden exit, then gazed scanned around Castle Black, a place he had called home for years now. Looking over the ramparts, he saw Sam had helped Maester Aemon on to the ramp, also next to them was Gilly and Little Sam. He waved, all of them gave a wave in response. 

 

His horse wavered as something came up next to it. Jon looks over to see Ghost padding over, the wolf reaching the horse’s shoulder. His trusted direwolf peered up at his master, red eyes full of affection. 

 

“That’s my boy,” Jon said, smiling at his wolf as he reached down to pat its head. Stannis looked over his shoulder at the massive direwolf, but only shrugged, looking as dour as ever. With the apparent approval of the King, the direwolf fell beside Jon’s horse as the party began its journey.

 

Hours later, they’d made significant progress towards Eastwatch. For the first time in his young life, Jon felt like he commanded respect. People had started calling him a Lord. Which felt utterly alien to him. 

 

‘Lord Stark’ 

 

A Baratheon soldier had called him that as they passed him on a horse and those two words sent him for a tailspin. 

 

It’s everything he ever wanted, now he truly felt the choice he made.

 

He rode up in front of the company with King Stannis, and Ser Davos. The King’s family rode inside a carriage behind them, Jon hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet. But surely he would soon. 

 

It was quiet around them. For once it had stopped snowing, sunlight streaming through the canopy of the forest they were traveling through. A cursory glance revealed the Lady Melisandre, who also rode near him. Her eyes never felt like they leave him. Searching, inspecting. Jon couldn’t help but feel unsettled whenever she’s around.

 

Thankfully, Davos came to his rescue, slowing his pace to block the Red Woman’s view of him. He smirked at Jon like did it on purpose.

 

“How are you,  _ Lord Stark? _ ” Davos asked him.

 

Those two words disarmed Jon again. He wondered if he’d ever get used to hearing them. Nothing seemed truly real for him now. Catching the look of the Onion Knight, he shook his head in an attempt to regain his composure. “I’m fine, Ser Davos.”

 

The older man glanced between Jon and Melisandre, narrowing his gaze. The Red Woman stared at Davos like she could see through him to Jon. “I’ve been around her for a while now,” Davos sighed, returning his eyes to Jon. “I’d tell you that you’ll get used to her… but you never really do.”

 

Jon smirked, “Good to know.”

 

The two rode in silence for a moment, Davos taking in the sheer height of the wall to their north, thinking of something to say. “So how's it feel?” he finally asked. “Being a Stark?”

 

Frowning, Jon replied, “I thought I’d feel different. But I don’t. People treat me differently already, but on the inside, I feel exactly the same.”

 

“You’ve only been a Stark for less than a day,” Davos chuckled. “Probably hasn’t set in yet.”

 

“This is what I’ve always wanted, yet now that I have it… I’m happy for sure, but I still feel like there’s something missing,” Jon explained. Mind wondering what that ‘something’ is.

 

“Hmm... I’m not sure,” Davos said, stroking his hairy chin. “At least it isn’t identification with your sigil.” He gestured to Ghost, who seemed to be having the time of his life - trotting alongside Jon with his tongue trailing from his mouth.

 

Jon laughed, reaching down to pet him again. “This guy’s been with me since before I left Winterfell, reminding me of my home, I guess. Was the runt of the litter of pups my father found, now look at him.” There was a tinge of pride in his voice.

 

Davos smirked. “Reminds me of you. The runt who grows up into the strongest among them all.” The brief moment of levity passed, seriousness returning. “I can’t say I have any context for your situation.”

 

“I understand.” Jon looked ahead to King Stannis, his new King. The man he swore he’d follow. Ironic because he really doesn’t know anything about the man aside from his reputation. He inclined his chin to him, “Tell me about him.” He asked Davos.

 

“Stannis?” Davos furrowed his brows.

 

“Aye. What’s he like?”

 

Nodding, Davos looked up to where the King rode, alone but for two bodyguards. Guess that described him better than anyone ever could. “Well, I’ve known the man a long time, and he’s been the only man I’ve ever known worth following. He’s honorable, just, and principled. I’ve never been around anyone as smart as Stannis Baratheon. His military mind is unheard of,” Davos talked like he’s a proud father speaking of his son. Jon realized Davos thought very highly of his King, like he could do nothing wrong. “Stannis is the greatest man I’ve ever known. I’m honored to be his Hand… and his friend.”

 

“So he’s a good ruler then?” Jon asked.

 

“Of course,” Davos said like it’s common sense. “You made the right choice, Jon. Stannis will be a great King. Commands respect, honor, loyalty…”

 

“Love?” Jon didn’t know why he asked that. Genuine curiosity, he figured.

 

Davos narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Well… not really.” He sighed. “I don’t speak ill of him, as you know, but I think that’s the one thing he seems to lack. He prefers to be feared… No one is perfect, I suppose. Stannis comes the closest though, no doubt about that.”

 

Pondering that over, Jon looked to Stannis and then back to Davos. “Maester Aemon said to me once that love is the death of duty. He was right, considering that the closest point I came to abandoning my vows before His Grace arrived was when I fell for a wildling girl.”

 

“Young love is a powerful thing,” Davos laughed. Mind harkening back to his own time, when he was young and in love.

 

“It is,” Jon couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps love was what persuaded me now, to avenge my family.” He shrugged. 

“Your family? Ah… Yes, your sister---”

 

“Sansa,” Jon nodded, cutting in. “The Boltons have her.”

 

With a furrowed brow, Davos reached over and clasped Jon’s shoulder, “You’ll save her, Jon.” He tried to reassure.

 

Nodding slowly, Jon replied, “I know. If it’s the last thing I do.”

 

“You will… and I doubt it’ll be the last thing you do.”

 

“I don’t know,” Jon sighed. “But I think I got the right help. The right ruler.”

 

“You did,” Davos agreed. “I can’t speak more highly about Stannis.”

 

“From what I’ve seen, I think Stannis is a fine choice. Though perhaps he could be a bit more compassionate… like you said, he lacks the love and affection. Part of me thinks that no ruler could ever truly love, but I don’t think I could ever be completely cold, if you understand.”

 

“I get it, Lord Stark. A monarch that can properly balance both love and duty would be formidable indeed.” There was a pregnant pause. “Seven Hells, I wonder if we’d ever see that happen.” 

 

Jon couldn’t respond to that, not knowing the answer himself.

 

“Perhaps in your lifetime, young Stark,” Davos added with a sigh. “I’m an old man. I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to see something like that.”

 

“Who knows?” Jon smiled. “Maybe we’ll both to see someone like that.”

 

Davos laughed, “Maybe, just maybe.”

 

* * *

 

 

She dreamed of snow. 

 

Never once had snow ever graced her vision, but Daenerys Targaryen still dreamt of it. Of cold. Of gusts of wind that chilled her to the bone. Invading her mind so thoroughly until her eyes exploded open - shooting out of bed into the stifling heat of Slaver’s Bay… shivering. Feeling the ice draping over her while the last tendrils of sleep hadn’t yet left.

 

Daario said it was of glory. Telling her in their bedroom rendezvous that they heralded her desire to reconquer the land her family once had ruled.

 

Missandei figured it was a reaction to the arrival of the Lannister dwarf. That the presence of such a prominent individual from the Seven Kingdoms naturally caused one to think of the land she so desired to rule.

 

Daenerys mused that it was the arrival of Jorah Mormont back in her life - at first. Seeing the Bear of the north, a land her brother had often said was draped in snow and ice as far as the eye could see, would cause her mind to focus on snow. To conflate it with the swirl of emotions she felt after seeing him again.

 

But lying in bed alone, having awoken once more in the middle of the night, the Dragon Queen pondered something new. A puzzling aspect of her dreams that had only appeared that night. Something nestled in the middle of the snow. One that blended in… but one she just simply noticed. As if she knew it was there.

 

A wolf. A large, white wolf, collapsed in the middle of a blizzard. A sword rested beside it, caked with dried blood of battles long fought. She could hear it whimper in pain. A pain that made her want to reach out and comfort the poor beast, but when Daenerys had waded through the snow, it vanished. A white light spreading through its chest.

 

Waking left her cold as usual, but with an empty feeling this time. A feeling of loss. Of grief. Sighing, Daenerys rose. No sense dwelling on it now.

 

It was only a dream. Although something told her to remember this one. 

 

Sometimes her dreams came true.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa. Ramsay is a little bitch and you bet Jon is prepared to Bring Winter to House Bolton.
> 
> (BRuh4) Okay, so, I was the one to write the Ramsay scene. Unfortunately, I thought about the Sansa from season 8 and I got angry. It doesn't help that I kinda hated her already. 
> 
> (Longclaw) All the characters in season 8 piss me off. We're gonna strive to make sure all of them are true to their characters.
> 
> And Dany makes her first appearance! It's a small teaser, but one that sets up a lot coming up. She'll be back :)
> 
> Davos and Jon are fast friends no matter what.
> 
> Alright, so the two moments I think are really important to remember moving forward is Jon leaving Castle Black and kinda that feeling he had. The other is most definitely the tiny section at the end. 
> 
> Next up we do have Hardhome, I'll go ahead and tell you that. One of the things that were so cool about this story is all the things that would be different with just Jon becoming a Stark. One of those was Stannis at Hardhome, we knew that he'd go, and it sounded fucking crazy and we had to do it. So that's coming up, it's gonna be epic.
> 
> We do hope you are enjoying this as much as we are. I personally don't know if I've enjoyed thinking about a story as much as this one. Which is crazy because I've written a whole bunch of shit over the years. Know that we pretty much fully committed to this despite our other stories because all the shit we're gonna do is too damn cool to not bring to life. Also, we need closure that the show didn't provide.
> 
> The support so far has been great, I love reading all your comments so keep them coming.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	4. Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw here. Your support is phenomenal, and we thank you for all the kind words, follows, and favs. Just to let all know, BRuh4 and I adhere to character arcs. We will be exploring them in directions not taken by many, and progress them to their natural conclusion. Characters may not act the same as in the show, but we will make sure it is satisfying :)
> 
> BRuh4 here. To those of you that read the Ramsay scene last week without the trigger warning, I apologize for that. That's what I'm sorry for, not giving a warning. There will be a warning for scenes such as those moving forward. That being said, I refuse to apologize for the scene itself. This GoT people. We're not pulling punches. Ramsay raped Sansa, it happened, we just didn't see it. And I didn't even depict the rape itself anyway.
> 
> All of that aside, I'm glad that all you are excited about this just as much as we are. This chapter was super fun to write being as it is the first battle of the story.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Kudos, bookmark, and comment!

It was a sight to see. Seemingly thousands of Wildlings stood on the shore, waiting. From end to end, hemmed in by towering cliffs that sheltered it from the harsh winds of winter, the beach was full. Thousands of eyes, all trained upon the small skiff. Holding few, but among those few, men critical to deciding the fate of the world.

Had the Wildlings cared for titles and nobility, they would have been impressed that they warranted such attention. Instead, most of them sent arresting gazes, being as though the appearance of all these ships were largely uninvited. The glimpse of wild, ginger hair at the van of the skiff raised eyebrows but changed nothing.

Tormund stood up in the boat, grumbling, "I haven't been back in a while. These fuckers probably thought I died fighting."

No one made to respond as their small boat reached the beach, it came to skid against the sand. The Wildlings didn't immediately attack them, which honestly surprised the Stag King and his cohorts. Stannis kept a firm hand on his sword all the way. His steely gaze was clearly unsure of what's to come.

Tormund hopped off the boat into the shallow water as the other skiffs from the Baratheon ships made land. Jon followed suit, Stannis and Davos trailing. They stood in front of the crowd, all is silent. The redheaded Wildling spoke up, "We're here to see the council!" Then he started towards the crowd.

Jon looked back to Stannis and Davos, tightening the strap of his bag of dragonglass around his back. "We may be fools for trusting him, but he's our only chance now." With that, he followed Tormund.

"I hope you're right about him, Ser Davos," Stannis said, flaring his nostrils towards Jon.

Davos nodded, "I believe am, Your Grace." Then they went after Jon, a number of Baratheon bannermen trailing their King as well.

The Wildlings parted for Tormund, their eyes flickered on him for a few seconds, and then bore holes into the rest of their visitors. Jon picked up the pace to catch up to Tormund, clasping him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"What are we doing, Tormund?"

Tormund grumbled somewhat angrily, so Jon retracted his hand, then he said, "They'll gather the Elders. We'll be able to talk to them."

Jon made to reply, but stopped once he saw more Wildlings coming directly at them. A whole pack of them, and they didn't look happy. He and Tormund halted as they approached. Once they neared, Jon recognized one of them up front. A big Wildling with the skull of a man hiding his face, a long staff-like weapon in his hands.

Tormund stepped up to the man, Jon half expected a brawl to break out. But they greeted each other instead.

"Lord of Bones," Tormund said, with a raise of an eyebrow. "Been a while since I last saw you."

The bigger Wildling didn't look fazed, even appearing to ignore Tormund, instead, he raised his staff up to Jon and said, "The last time I saw you, this one was your prisoner. It's the other way around now."

"I'm no prisoner," Tormund growled, raising his hands up. "You see any chains here? We're just here to talk. Gather the Elders."

"You don't give the orders around here… not anymore."

Tormund moved closer, "Listen to me-"

The Lord of Bones cut in, "What the fuck happened to you? Where's Tormund Giantsbane? I don't see him here."

" _War,_ " Tormund drawled, with a shrug.

"Ha… You call that war?" The Lord of Bones scoffed. "Largest and best army the North has ever seen… cut to pieces by a Southern King."

The rock beneath their feet shifted as Stannis moved forward, hand on his sword, "By this Southern King." His head was held high, pride and arrogance tinging his voice. Jon silently sighed. This wasn't gonna go well.

The Lord of Bones scowl was even seen through his mask, he roared, "Who the fucks that?"

Ser Davos cleared his throat, "Stannis Baratheon, First of his name, Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

The Wildlings around gasped, even pulled swords, and raised their axes. Some even surged forward, only to be pushed back by Baratheon men in an impromptu shield wall. Loud yelling filled the air as it all appeared that there would be an all-out slaughter than a rescue. Stannis shook his head, glaring at Davos. When Jon stomped his foot, bellowing out, "We're not here to fight! Everyone stop!" He pushed forward, shoving his way through the Baratheon guards. "Put down your swords!" Making his way to the center of all the struggle. "Get those axes down, you cunts!" He knew the Freefolk. Knew how to talk to them.

Somehow, all of that was enough to quiet the crowd even though Tormund and the Lord of Bones were locked in a brawl. Something sparked a fight amongst all the chaos. Nothing could stop them, everyone backed up from them. "You fight with the Southern Kin, and the turncoat crow!" all heard the Lord of Bones snarl, throwing a right hook. Tormund dodged and punched the other man in return, wrestling the staff from his grip. Proceeding to bash his brains in with the stick, when he's done the Lord of Bones' head is nothing more than paste. Blood spraying all over Tormund and the ground before him.

He tossed the staff aside, banging his fist against his chest. The fight halted anything else going on, all eyes on him.

"Gather the Elders, and let's talk," Tormund commanded, no room for discussion. Saying nothing else, he stomped onward.

Even Stannis looked surprised at the sight of the former man's crushed skull, Davos' eyes only widened at the scene. This was nothing new to Jon - he showed no reaction. Though he shifted over to address his King, "Your Grace." He bowed slightly.

"Lord Stark," Stannis acknowledged him.

"I know this seems… outlandish. I know it's foreign to you, but if we can secure this army, I know it will be an important addition to your forces," Jon said.

"I agree," Ser Davos declared, eyes still wandering around his surroundings.

"They do seem to be quite… vicious," Stannis noticed. "Exactly what I need for my army."

"We're going to meet with their Elders now, Your Grace," Jon pointed out. "I would exercise caution. They will not kneel for you. But they can still be our allies, what you offer is too great. They won't... cannot refuse."

Stannis exhaled, realizing what Jon's saying may be useful to remember. The sheer number of Wildlings here would be a helpful addition. Their forces would vastly outnumber the Boltons. If they wouldn't bend the knee, he would have to accept mere fealty.

* * *

Everyone gathered in a large tent, around a bonfire, the flames cascaded through a flume at the top. All the Wildling Elders stood on the far side, a wooden platform above covering them in darkness, though the fire illuminated their faces. Four large wooden pillars held it all up, many people leaned against these. Stannis, Jon, and Davos resided near the exit, in case a quick exodus became necessary. A fight was out of the question. The Wildlings surrounded them - they'd be killed in minutes.

A random Wildling in the back called out, "Who let these pricks in? They're our fuckin' enemies." Hearing that, some others started stomping their feet in agreement.

"We are not!" Jon responded to the noise, stepping up. "We are not here to destroy you. That's not what this is about. This is about the survival of your people."

"Survival?" A large Thenn scoffed. "What the fuck are you talking about, Crow?"

"I'm no Crow. Not anymore," Jon scowled.

King Stannis' voice filled the tent, "My offer is simple. Pledge to fight with me, here, now, against the Boltons. In return I offer you lands to lay your claim to. Lands large enough for all of you to settle in, lands you can farm."

"It's a fair offer," Davos echoed his King.

"It's your only offer. Your only chance," Jon grimaced, watching the disgust in the chieftain's faces. "The White Walkers are coming. You all know that, you've seen them just as I have. This is your chance at survival, all of you can have that safety you desire. Get on the right side of the wall, the way it should've been."

"That Wall was built to keep us out," A Wildling woman spoke up, seated by the fire.

"Since when do you fucks care if we live?" the Thenn said.

"Normally, we wouldn't," Stannis scowled.

"In normal times," Jon said. "But as well all know these aren't normal times." He motioned to Stannis, "A Southern King stands before you, the first Southern King to journey beyond the wall in a thousand years. He wouldn't be here if this wasn't serious." Then he removed his satchel, "Together, we can defeat the White Walkers."

"Defeat them?" The same woman laughed. "Maybe running… or hiding is a better option."

Jon handed the bag to her, when she didn't immediately take it, he said, "It's not a trick, if we wanted to murder you we certainly wouldn't have entered this damn tent." Reluctantly, the woman took it, Jon added, "Dragonglass. We recovered this some time ago."

Eagerly, the woman opened the bag and looked inside. Sticking her hand inside, she returned with a shard of dragonglass in the form of a dagger. She passed the bag along to a Wildling next to her who did the same as her.

"A man of the Night's Watch had used one of those to kill a White Walker."

"You saw this?"

"I wasn't there. But I'd trust the man with my life, and several wildlings were present when he did this, and can attest to it." He paused - not feeling it necessary to mention the wildling in question was essentially Sam's lover and her child - as other Wildlings examined the dragonglass, "Come with us and we'll share these weapons."

"I'm sorry if this seems too good to be true," The woman said. "We're just given land?"

"If you fight for me." Stannis corrected.

"Where's Mance?" The Thenn asked.

Jon froze, realizing these people had no idea what had happened to their King. He frowned before he spoke, "I put an arrow through his heart."

It all came unglued then, any Wildling sitting, rose and surged towards Jon, with Tormund hadn't blocked them with his form they may have torn Jon to pieces.

"Hey! Back the fuck up!" Tormund said.

"We should kill them! Send them back to where they came from!" The tall Thenn yelled.

"All of you shut the fuck up! None of you were there! None of you!" Tormund yelled back, making everyone quiet down. He stepped in front of the fire, "It was mercy."

Stannis crossed his arms over his chest, "I tore your army to shreds, after the battle, I tied your King to a post to be burned."

"Jon defied that order," Davos voiced himself. "The arrow was mercy."

"It's true," Tormund sighed, as much as the words hurt him to utter. "We do the same to captured Chieftains. Mance knew what would happen and accepted the flames, but this crow gave him mercy. Instead of being punished, the Southern King rewarded him with a castle!"

Incredulous, the head Thenn's eyes widened at Tormund, "You brought the men responsible for killing our King here?"

"Because he had to," Jon said, moving forward, adding his voice to the commotion. "Tormund knew it was the only chance for him and all of you."

"I am your only salvation," Stannis opened his arms. "Fight with me… and be saved."

"With you?" The Thenn spat. "The man who burned Mance? Fuck off." Many other Wildings agreed with this sentiment, adding their voices. Soon the tent became loud.

Jon hung his head, but then he turned to Tormund. His stare told the man all it needed to, for a few moments they just looked at each other. But then Tormund moved up, and yelled, "Quiet the fuck down! Shut up!" His voice contained a commanding tone, and the Wildlings obeyed. When it all went silent, Tormund looked at Jon, and nodded. They weren't friends, but they both knew the importance of this moment.

"I knew Mance Rayder," Jon said. "I did. I came to know him well, and he didn't want a war." He shook his head. "He just wanted safety for his people. He's gone now… but don't let his life have been for nothing. You can have what he wanted for you, here and now." He pointed to the earth below him, "Right now... He wanted a new life for all of you. We are prepared to give you that."

"Fight for me, and I'll provide the lands. I swear it," Stannis added. "As long as you swear it first."

"How can we trust you?"

"Do so if you can," Jon shrugged. "If not… We are your only chance. No one else is coming for you… except the dead."

"What happens when the dead do come?" Someone in the back asked.

"When the dead come, I'll defeat them as I will defeat the Boltons and the Lannisters, with no mercy," Stannis answered. Melisandre's vision, of a man fighting a great battle in the snow was always close to his thoughts. He was the man in the vision. He knew it.

"You will fight with us then, as well," Jon said. "That's a given."

"It took courage to do what Jon Snow - Stark did," Tormund said. "That's what we need now… Courage. We need the courage to make peace with these men. I know they killed our King. I know you want to murder them, but that gets fucking nowhere. We do that and then the Walkers come here first and were wiped out. It'd be the end of us forever."

"Think of your children now," Davos chimed in.

"They'll never have children of their own if we don't band together," Jon finished for Davos. "Fight with King Stannis now, so you can live. Then… when the Long Night comes, together, maybe we can stand a chance. But only together, maybe then it still won't be enough. But we'll give those ice fuckers a fight."

After that, it went quiet, everyone just looked around at each other. The Wildlings looked for something that could truly make all of this true. Jon just hoped that this is enough for them.

"You vouch for these men, Tormund?" the Wildling woman asked.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't, Karsi. I wasn't forced to come here," Tormund said, then he looked at Jon, "This man here… he came to me and asked me to come here. To convince all of you to listen and save yourselves, he went to…" He motioned to Stannis, "His Southern King, and got him to come here himself. They need us… and we need them."

Tormund continued, "I know this King killed Mance. I know it. I hate it. But this is our only chance."

"It's not fair," Davos coaxed. "That the man you have to swear to now is the same man that ended your King. But it's the only choice you have."

"Your only chance," Stannis grunted, with his hands on his hips. "I came here knowing you could kill me as soon as I set foot on the shore. Trust that I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to. But I need your army. Fight with me, and I'll give you what you want."

"We won't kneel for you. We do not kneel," Karsi glared at him. Many other Wildlings did the same.

"We came here knowing that," Jon said. "I lived with you, slept and ate and fought with all of you."  _I loved among you._  I would never ask you to forfeit your honor by kneeling. King Stannis will accept a pledge of fealty."

The woman Jon now knew to be called Karsi moved toward him, saying, "I don't trust you yet." Then she looked at Stannis, "I'll never trust him." Finally, her eyes landed on Tormund, "But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is what we must do… if this is the way. Then we're with you."

Tormund bobbed his head up and down, " _This is it. This is the way._ "

Another Wildling leader spoke up, "As much as it pains me to say… let's go with them. I'm with Tormund. If we stay here we're dead. At least with the Southern King… we have a chance."

After that, the head Thenn moved towards Jon, who back up, hand instinctively going to Longclaw, "Keep that 'new life' you wanna give us. Keep your fucking dragonglass. You and your fucking King are our enemies. You're a fucking Crow. You've always been our enemy, you'll always be our enemy." He regarded the room, "As soon as you get on their boats… they'll slit your fucking throats, toss you in the sea." Then he walked a past Jon towards the exit of the tent, many wildlings followed.

* * *

All the Wildlings that wished to leave gathered by the shore, piling into the rowboats. More of them than can count lined up to hop on a boat, as soon as one arrived it left just as quick. The prospect of salvation sounded too sweet to some, the chance to leave the cold North. Those who balked at it were just too proud.

Those who wanted to stay wandered around their homes or scattered outside Hardhome's walls. Watching on in disgust as their friends take the easy way out.

Jon stands side by side with Tormund, watching the Wildlings line up to leave. Both of them feeling somewhat accomplished, though Jon's eyes scanned over the crowd in front of him, many for sure, but not all of them. He asked Tormund, "How many are coming? Six thousand?"

Tormund lifted a child into the waiting arms of a mother in one of the boats, and said, "I'm not good at counting."

"How many?" Jon repeated himself.

"I don't know," Tormund grumbled. "Something like that… The rest will come around, the food they have is running out, these lands aren't fertile, and there's nothing to hunt."

"We're leaving too many behind," Jon sighed.

"The Free Folk are too proud, you know they don't like kneeling. It took Mance twenty years to get these fucks together," Tormund told him.

After that, all was fine, boats kept coming in and going out. Stannis stood by Davos, just in front of Jon, they remarked about how these numbers might give the army the hand-up they need to defeat the Boltons. Even going as far as to complement Jon on the sentiments that brought them here. Stannis now began to realize how much he appreciates having Jon with him. He never would've been able to secure the Wildlings without him.

Then suddenly, the dogs started to bark, the ground trembled. Something is going on outside the wooden gates of the settlement. People start pouring in from outside by the hundreds, they're being driven away from something. It's so loud all eyes are set in that direction. Deep in his belly, Jon feels like he knows exactly what is happening. By one glance at Tormund, he knows as well. The crowd of Wildlings starts to increase in size, people start getting pushed into the water. Some even start to swim towards the boats in a mad hurry.

Stannis looked back to Jon, asking, "What's happening?"

In response, Jon drew Longclaw, "Your Grace, get on the next boat, you need to leave."

"Jon, what is it?" Davos asked, worried.

"The dead are already here," Tormund answered for Jon.

Nodding, Jon walked past them, "I need to go back for the dragonglass. We need it."

In front of them, the Wildlings began to close the gate. The screams of those trapped beyond soon reached all the way to the beach. Something outside began to tear them apart, those close to the gate seeing the blood flying. Only seeing the feet of the people outside shift and move. A force so strong the gate pushed out towards those on the inside.

A great storm approached, floating over the mountains, snow starting to fall all around them. The wind picked up, turning it into a small blizzard.

Then all the struggle by the gate disappeared, all the feet below faded away. The Leader of the Thenn's approached the gate, when he peered through the wooden logs of the doors, he saw nothing. Just the raging blizzard. But only for a moment, for the next thing he knew an undead person careened into the wood before him. Then hundreds came right behind.

It turned to a frenzy by the shore, the Wildlings started fighting for spots on the boats. The Baratheon bannermen tried to make them stay in line but Wildlings fought back, small brawls breaking out. Most that got through took their chances in the freezing water than facing what's coming through the gate.

Tormund grasped Jon's shoulder and pointed to the gate, "If they break through… we're all dead."

Jon nodded at the Wildling, then regarded his King, "Your Grace, you need to leave."

Stannis shook his head, and drew his sword, "No, I will not cower."

"Your Grace-" Jon started.

Davos interrupted him, "Best not argue, Jon." He gave a small smile despite the circumstances.

Jon said instead, "We need to defend the retreat." Pointing at the gate, "We need to hold them back as long as we can. They'll be coming from over there."

Unwavering as ever, Stannis turned to his bannermen and yelled, "Bannermen! With me!" He charged forward through the droves of Wildlings towards the gate. Drawing Longclaw, Jon followed his new King with Tormund right behind him.

They shoved their way towards the gate, which by now is being broken through. Undead foot soldiers crawl over the top, under the bottom, and tear through a hole in the wood. The Wildlings attempts to hold them back are in vain.

Stannis and company arrive at the battered wall as the dead began to breach. Worming their way through gaps ripped through the logs. Unprepared wildlings were set upon, their screams lost over the noise of the screeching undead. Dozens of undead surged forward, engaged quickly by the defenders and the arriving reinforcements. Many of those who took on the undead were swarmed and cut down.

The undead moved inhumanly, their limbs flopping around. Skin colored brown, and rotting, eyes blue as ice. Most all of them gripped rusty swords and axes.

A sight unlike anything Stannis had ever seen. Literal dead men, walking corpses, running straight for him with the intent of cutting him to bits. A weaker man should crawl inside himself in fear, he did not.

Jon yelled out over the wind and snow, "Stand your ground!" Snarls reaching his ears, he spun around and parried a blow from a half-rotted wight. Valyrian steel clashed with a rusted bronze, batting it away before the Lord of Winterfell buried it into its ribcage. Next to him, Tormund rushed into the fight swinging his sword like a madman, cutting down all the undead before him.

Sword drawn and wading into the fray - surprising whatever wildlings that paid attention, a southern King fighting on the front lines - Stannis decapitated a wight. It kept coming, clawing at his knees before a blow crushed the head. "Head!" he yelled. "Hit the head!" Anger rising at the fresh cuts to his shins, he bellowed a cry as he charged at two others.

Firing furiously, Karsi knew in the back of her mind that the archers weren't gonna be enough to hold them off. But as if a miracle, about a dozen Baratheon crossbowmen appeared. "Frost Fangs!" she yelled at a cluster of warriors. "Protect the southerners! You there! Fire at anything that peeks its head through or over the wall!" If the crossbowmen had any irritation at taking orders from a wildling, they didn't show it as they obeyed. Well aimed steel bolts took down wights by the score, Freefolk archers now able to pick off wights that had already charged through.

A group of wights charged at Tormund, he took down one but the others tackled him to the ground. Thrashing at his neck, the wights scratched and crawled him. Tormund wrestled his sword free, pushing it through the chest of a wight trying to bite his nose off. Then using the blade to brace against three other undead pushing against him. One hand gripped the hilt his other palm held the end of the blade, fingers dangerously close to a wight's gnashing teeth. He's forced deeper into the mud he laid in, muck seeping into his hair and onto his face.

A wight swung down at him with a jagged short sword. Tormund brought his blade up to block the attack, he succeeded, after the collision, the wight's sword bounced a landed on Tormund's hand. Two of his fingers were completely severed, he cried out in pain, watching them fall from his hand. Blood spewing out onto his chest.

The very same wight who took his fingers would've also taken his life, the undead monster reared back to slash at Tormund again, only to be cut down but a certain black haired man.

Jon took care of all the wights surrounding the Wildling, then he said, "Get to your feet, Tormund, more are on the way."

Still mourning the loss of half of his index and middle fingers on his left hand, Tormund got to his feet, clutching his sword with his intact right. He might've thanked Jon for saving his life with there weren't four more undead running straight at them. He watched as Jon jumped headlong into the scuffle, swinging Longclaw undeterred. Hacking down skeleton after skeleton, letting them hear his roar all the while. Adrenaline pumping, Tormund entered the fray as well.

Nearby, Stannis fought like a wildcat, sword slicing through corpse after corpse. Seeing countless wights trickle through a gap in the wood, he shouted, "Get a patch!" Seeing no one willing to hold them off, he charged himself. Beheading a wight, he skewered another, using it to block further infiltrators. "Fuck!" Stannis yelled, muscles straining to keep back the tide… until finally, half a dozen wildlings arrived with a large slab of stone to block it off permanently.

Breathing heavy, Stannis backed up. Watching as the Wildlings pushed their bodies against the stone, trying to hold the undead back. Nonetheless, droves of undead kept tearing through the wooden logs of the gate. Yet now there is a momentary lull in the action.

Jon runs over to Stannis, "My King, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Stannis replied, though clearly physically harmed, and his body worn out.

"I'm going for the dragonglass, now, while I have a chance," Jon told him.

"I'll come with you." Racing towards the hut, suddenly a chunk of the wall burst open, wights racing through the gap. "Get the dragonglass!" Stannis yelled, engaging the first wight, batting aside its sloppy axe blow and skewering it. "Go!"

Darting into the hut, Jon found the fire at the center having spread throughout the whole structure. Heat surrounding him. Looking everywhere for the sack, suddenly the building heat disappeared, icy tendrils forming on the walls around him. Turning, Jon came face to face with one of them.

An other.

A White Walker.

He barely had been able to turn before the White Walker had his ice spear out, headbutting Jon and sending him sprawling. Catching his bearings, he lashed out with Longclaw - but the walker was agile, dodging the blade. Spinning, the spearpoint slashed alongside Jon's chest. Leaving a shallow but long gash. A kick to the stomach sent him falling to the ground, Longclaw flying from his grip, clattering against the dirt.

Watching Jon tumble to the floor of the hut, crying out in pain, the White Walker began to follow when something else caught his attention. A single man outside, fighting like a saber-toothed cat against over a dozen corpses. One of the monster's instincts recognized. 'A King.' Emotionless eyes blazing with cold fire, he abandoned the burning hut in search of his new target.

Coughing, acrid smoke searing his nostrils, Jon heaved himself to his feet, running his hand over his wound. His chest burned from pain, blood soaking his tunic. 'Get back in the fight, Stark!' yelled a voice that sounded a lot like Jeor Mormont. His hand wavered as he got Longclaw back, clenched tightly in his hand, he looked at the sack of dragonglass spearheads and daggers. Draped in flame all around. For a moment he hesitated, fearful of the flames. But such fear was drowned in a surge of confidence, of determination. He knew they need those weapons. Steeling himself, he charged into the flames.

Sword crushing against the skull of a wight, rotting flesh disintegrating upon contact, Stannis blocked the crazed axe blow of a skeleton before decapitating its ribcage. He panted, sucking in the cold air which sobered his lungs… suddenly, the temperature plummeted, a pulsing malevolence surrounding him. Turning, the King found himself face to face with an inhuman monster - ice blue eyes boring in on him. Reacting, he plunged his sword into the monster's open abdomen…

Only for the blade to shatter upon contact, as if the steel were mere glass. The monster looked at its stomach, then backhanded Stannis at least ten feet. The King slammed into the wall of a hut, the wind knocked out of him as he coughed and struggled to rise. He felt a stabbing ache, looking down and gritting his teeth as he pulled a shard of wood out of his thigh. "Seven hells!" Blood oozed onto his trousers, but not quickly. The wound was not the pressing threat.

Walking over to him, the White Walker readied his ice spear to swipe it downward and end the King's life.

'How ironic,' Stannis couldn't help but think, pain burning through him. 'Killed by a dead man.' The cold ice blurred as it swung downward…

_Clang._

Three pairs of surprised eyes gazed at the meet of ice to steel. Out of nowhere, Jon had dove, Longclaw ready for a last ditched parry… only for the Valyrian steel to stand true against the enchanted ice. White Walker shocked more than either man, Jon took advantage by leaping to his feet. He batted aside the spear before plunging Longclaw into its stomach, achieving what Stannis hoped to do as the monster shattered into flecks of ice.

Blinking, Stannis soon found a hand outstretched. "Get up, my King," Jon stated, hauling Stannis to his feet.

Stannis brushed snow off his breastplate, already feeling the pain from his leg. "Thank you, Lord Stark." Praise was rare from the Stag King, but given when earned. "I am in your debt."

Jon shrugged. "Just don't die." He tossed Stannis a dragonglass short sword, hand covered with grime and soot… but otherwise unharmed. Had the situation been less dire, Jon would have disbelieved his own good luck, he figured his glove had spared himself from the fire.

"Watch out you cunts!" At Tormund's snarling warning, Jon and Stannis looked up the massive cliff walls to see five horsemen - each resting on their mounts over twenty feet apart from the other. In the center was one different than the others. While all Walkers he had seen were long-bearded like wildlings, this one's face was bare. A crown of ice on his head.

The Night King. The one the Freefolk had so feared. Staring down, meeting Jon's eyes, he raised a single finger. Pointing forth as a booming snarl resonated behind him.

It was enough for Jon. "Run!" he screamed just as a horde of dead charged over the cliff face.

The dead had no tactics. No complex maneuvers or valiant feats of courage. Only a mindless instinct to kill, at the behest of their King. Their master. As the horde fell atop the floor of the valley and the other finally bringing down the wall of logs and staves, they surged forward in a swarm akin to ants charging from a disturbed anthill. Killing all that stood in their way.

And the living broke, fleeing frantically towards the hope of salvation on the shore.

Jon literally manhandled Stannis through the broken shacks and bloody melees, wound to his leg slowing him down. Tormund threw his axe at a charging wight as he too ran for his life. Karsi was nearly set upon by a group of undead children when Wun Wun, bellowing an ancient battlecry, batted them aside with a burning log. Using his size and strength, the giant acted as a one-man army to hold the rear as the final among the living sprinted towards the last boat.

"Come on!" Davos yelled, gesturing like a madman as he saw his King, Jon, and the last two wildlings appeared into view. "Get over here!" His heart was pounding. "Protect your King!" he yelled at the pair of archers and single crossbowman on the boat, preparing to take up oars. Arrows and bolts shot out, felling errant wights that got too close to the group with expert accuracy. "Come on!"

Legs pumping, lungs on fire, Jon summoned what strength he had and literally tossed Stannis onto the boat, leaping in not long after. He grunted as he hit the rough wooden hull. Grunts turned to cries of pain as two figures landed on top of him, jabbing into his ribs and legs. "You make for the softest of pillows, Crow."

Leave it to Tormund to wisecrack at a time like this. Jon pushed himself to his feet, they watched as the horde peeled off at the shore, biting and hacking and stabbing at whatever living remained in the massive settlement. "Row!" Davos screamed at the soldiers, all of whom were frantically slapping their oars in the freezing water. Several wights charged at them, but either splashed to their demise in the ocean or were batted aside into kindling by Wun Wun, who just waded into the water as if nothing bothered him.

"Give me wine." Stannis pulled himself to sit on the planks.

Davos turned to his king. "Are you alright, your Grace?"

Stannis was in no mood. "I said give me the fucking wine!" A wineskin was thrust into his hand, to which he downed it like a man trekking through the desert for a week. Dulling the now throbbing ache in his leg. Even Tormund laid on his back in the skiff, breathing hard, clutching his bloodied hand.

"Your Grace," Jon remarked, gazing at the shoreline, rising to his feet.

"Not now, Lord Stark." Stannis was tired. Just… so tired.

The rightful Lord of Winterfell didn't back down. "I think you should see this."

About to tell Jon off again, Stannis noticed that all but him had their eyes to the shore. Rising, his eyes widened as well. There was the Night King, raising his arms, limbs outstretched in a sort of taunt. All around him, thousands of dead wildlings… simply rose. Wights all, closed eyes opened again, turning a pale blue. Thousands of blue eyes locked onto the retreating skiffs, empty stares, but nonetheless murderous.

Jon straightened, feeling the cold gaze of the Night King. As freezing as his body already felt, somehow now feeling like all the warmth retreated from his body.

Aboard the ships, all stared at the undead horde. Baratheon soldiers, rescued wildlings, stormlands, sailors, Essosi pirates, and merchantmen manning the ships… all couldn't believe the sheer horror of what they were seeing. An ancient, legendary evil now in the flesh. Ready, willing, and able to slaughter anyone and anything that stood in its way. Quite… sobering.

Deep in the bowels of the flagship of the Stormlands fleet, the Lady Melisandre was the one man not staring at the shore. Instead, she watched the flames - flickering within the large brazier in the middle of her cabin - in disbelief. The swirling clouds sent her belowdecks, to gaze at the fire to deduce the Lord of Light's secrets as the Night's Terrors finally charged forth. To find clues for how her lord was to vanquish the Long Night from existence…

But the only vision exploded in a cloud of fire and smoke near the end of the battle. One of a figure - not Stannis - but Jon Stark swinging his Valyrian Steel sword and vanquishing a demon himself. Jon Stark, the man the flames presented to her.

She stared at the flames, mind blank as she pondered the meaning of the Lord of Light's latest message.

What was her Lord trying to tell her about Jon Stark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even the Wildlings would look upon a Southern King arriving in their home. It is momentous, and Stannis and Jon will have their names in the history books for this one.
> 
> Hardhome has been written multiple times (Longclaw wrote it in Empire), so we wanted to do what we could to make it unique. Hope y'all liked what we came up with. We're getting to a point where we're really gonna co canon divergent in substance, but there will be some inspiration from the parts we think were well done.
> 
> Gone are the days in which Jon and company will get into battles and walk away unscathed. It's ridiculous and it makes no sense. Aside from some facial scars, Jon in the show never really got fucked up in a battle. Which is dumb. We knew that we weren't gonna kill any major characters here, we even decided to save Karsi. But if we did that there had to be some form of injury or wounds for a fight of this scale. The wounds sustained here will have lasting consequences.
> 
> Be sure to check out our other stories: An Empire of Ice and Fire for Longclaw and To Catch a Dream by BRuh4. Also, Longclaw is thinking about two other story ideas. One a post-canon AU with Jon and Dany facing a new threat called Dance of Dragons, and the other a drama/comedy with a Prince Jon dealing with a succession crisis after the mad king's death called Death of Aerys. Tell Longclaw what you think :D
> 
> Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	5. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw here. Thanks once again to those that have given their support to the story. It means a lot. This chapter is kinda the calm before the storm, but a lot of character arcs will start to form here, so it's an important one.
> 
> BRuh4: Hey, y'all, thanks much for all the support. It's a big help. These next chapters are going to be crazy and I hope you'll stick with us on them.
> 
> Also, we will be changing the rating of this to Explicit. More on that at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Clenching his teeth, Jon bit back the cry of pain as the wound to his chest stung with the stings of a thousand wasps. "Hold still, Jon Stark," stated the red woman, needle and thread stabbing through the edges of the deep cut. "This will take time to finish." When Melisandre had offered to stitch his chest, he immediately wanted to decline. But she insisted. Using her cryptic way of speaking, of course.

They had escaped with their lives but not without consequences. Jon and Stannis were injured, along with many other Wildlings and Bannermen. Preliminary assessments between Karsi, Tormund, and Davos found twelve thousand Wildlings had been rescued by the entirety of the Baratheon fleet - of that, four thousand could be counted on as fully combat ready at that point. The rest were women, children, the elderly, or in various stages of wounded. Stannis seemed to lament mostly on this point. Jon and Davos, the Onion Knight, shaken up to the point of collapse, were far more worried that tens of thousands of Wildlings were now added to the army of the dead.

But the wall kept them out. They had time. How much time? Jon couldn't help but wonder. The Wall had held them out for thousands of years. Could it still continue to hold them back? Supposing they didn't have any way of getting past the Wall.

Having just fought them, Jon's mind stayed on the White Walker threat. He knew that Stannis wanted to move against Winterfell now. Which he knew he needed to do himself.  _'For Sansa.'_  That was what mattered right now, saving his sister and bringing justice for his family. He was the Lord of Winterfell, it was his duty.

 _'But you are no ordinary Lord. You are a former brother of the watch.'_  A Lord that had seen the threat for himself. A Lord that had actually seen the words of House Stark made manifest.  _'Winter is coming.'_  The White Walkers had singlehandedly wiped out the majority of a Wildling settlement. Had Stannis' ships not been there, most likely the entire population of Wildlings would've been destroyed. Entire clans wiped out.

More souls added to the Army of the Dead.

The events of the battle had him praying they still had time.  _'The Seven Kingdoms aren't ready to fight the Night King.'_  Nowhere near ready. He could count only two major houses having seen the threat, and of them, House Baratheon was the only one with pledged bannermen at the moment. Most of the country wasn't willing to come together to fight a common enemy. The North might come together, but never under the Boltons.

They needed time.

Time.

_'Any time is a gift.'_

Jon needed time. Enough of it for him to defeat the Boltons - to help Stannis take the Iron Throne.  _'The Stag King has seen the Night King, he knows the threat.'_  From the throne, he'd be able to unite everyone to fight together for once. That was their only chance. Humanity's only chance.

Unlike Jon, Stannis had refused any treatment for his leg, other than merely tying the wound closed. And for some reason that Jon couldn't decipher, the Red Woman seemed more concerned for him than for the King.

"Providence shines upon you, Jon Stark."

"Yeah, that's why I got slashed by a white walker," he remarked snidely, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain.

"You faced the other and lived. You faced the flames and lived. You faced the darkness and terrors of the night… and you lived." She took a wet cloth and applied it to the gash. It was soothing. "The Lord of Light has a purpose for you, indeed."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I thought His Grace was the one favored by the Lord of Light…" His statement was cut off as Melisandre placed a type of poultice on his wound… one that burned with the fury of a thousand fires.

Melisandre sliced off the needle, her stitching done. "Calm down. This will prevent the pox." She reached for a skin of wine, thrusting it to Jon. The Lord of Winterfell guzzled it down, welcoming the acidic warmth that spread through his gullet. "The Lord sends me glimpses. Glimpses that now feature you quite prominently, Jon Stark. I do not know what part you play, but you will play a part in the coming night."

"And Stannis?" The wine helped dull the sting as Melisandre began to wrap the bandage around his torso. He kept drinking, typically he didn't care for the taste. Yet now the sour flavor was pleasant to him.

"Stannis is the Prince that was Promised." Simple. Definitive… but for the first time since meeting the Lord of Dragonstone, Melisandre was less than one hundred percent convinced of her assessment. This man, Jon Stark, the one she had seen in the flames. She knew when she saw him that he would have a role to play. Not sure what sort of role, though. Now it seemed that role was larger than she originally imagined he'd have. However, when she had first seen him, she had immediately understood his importance, somehow.

"I've heard that wives tale," Jon said. "Prince that was Promised… he'll save everyone from certain destruction."

"It's not just a story, Jon Stark," Melisandre warned. "You know it to be true."

"What'd you mean?" He furrowed his brows.

"You've seen them… the others. You know they have to be stopped. The only one who can save us is Azor Ahai — The Prince that was Promised," she smirked.

"I think that the White Walkers are the greatest threat to mankind. And if your 'Prince' is the one to lead us… By all means…" Jon said, wincing as he shifted on the chair. Wondering how long his upper body would ache as it did now, lifting a sword would be difficult. He had a feeling that would be a good thing to be able to do in the coming weeks.

She cocked her head at him. "The Night is dark and full of terrors." The Red Woman tightly wrapped Jon's chest in gauze, "Don't be disillusioned, Jon Stark. The Lord of Light's will always come to pass."

"And what does your Lord want?" Jon asked.

Melisandre did not hesitate:

"Peace."

* * *

Stannis Baratheon didn't trust words. Words could mean all sorts of things, and people used them to their own benefit. Merely hearing the Wildlings say they'd fight for him wasn't really enough. It was mostly the way they'd say it. Not like a typical Westerosi pledge.

So, since he had saved them, the Wildlings really didn't have a choice anyway. They might as well swear it.

Stannis and his camp gathered with the Wildling elders that had survived on the top deck of the ship. Near the bow, they stood apart from each other, Tormund between them. The wind blew hard, those with longer hair had trouble keeping it out of the faces. The ocean below them, torrid waves.

Jon had tried to help Stannis understand that the Wildlings would fight with them no matter what. But the Stag wouldn't hear it.

"They'll swear to fight or I'll have the lot tossed overboard," Stannis had said. He knew they wouldn't bend the knee - that would be preferred but he understood that it really wasn't possible. That being said, he needed some way of an assurance that they'd actually help him. That they wouldn't refuse to fight or disperse into the woods once they made land.

They hadn't even specifically said they'd fight for him yet. Just danced around the correct words. He summed it up to them being generally uneducated. Jon noticed that Stannis didn't have much patience for things like this.

Karsi stood among her people, Tormund moved in to say a few words to them. Most of the Wildlings seemed open to this. Some not so sure. Stannis had sentenced their King to death. They hadn't forgotten that and likely would never.

Jon leaned towards Stannis, "My King, the Wildlings will fight-"

"I've heard it enough from you," Stannis interrupted him, sending a glare. Hiding the stabbing agony that burned within his thigh. Then his gaze returned to the Wildlings across from him. "I need to hear it from them."

Karsi stepped up before she could speak, Davos did, saying, "Do you speak for your people as a whole?"

She nodded, "I do." Closing her eyes, thinking of her children, she pushed aside her pride. "With Mance Rayder dead and many other chieftains dead at Hardhome, Tormund and I are bound to speak for our people. We… we pledge our spears and blades to the Southern King."

Slowly, Stannis stepped forward, his wounded leg clearly still bothering him, limping slightly. Though he wouldn't let on. His gaze settled on Karsi, "I, Stannis Baratheon, First of my Name, Right King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, accept your pledge of fealty, and I vow that once the fighting is done in the North, the Wildling clans will be allowed land to reside in, near the Gift."

Karsi looked back to Tormund, who just shrugged. If not for the whistling of the wind, one could have heard Stannis' words fly over their heads.

Jon noticed this, moving up, "King Stannis promises that he will deliver the lands to you after the Boltons are defeated."

Tormund pursed his lips, then said, "Why didn't he just say that then?" Some of his cohorts behind him nodding and talking amongst themselves.

Trying to chuckle, Jon replied, "It's… Just the formal way of doing things in Westeros."

Feeling slighted, the Stag grumbled, wrapping himself tighter in his fur-lined cloak, He motioned at Jon. "Lord Stark, follow me." Glancing at Davos for a moment, Jon nodded and stepped into place behind his King.

Ser Davos watched them shift down the steps of the bow, frowning slightly, then he turned back to Wildling. He ambled over, intent on further discussion.

As they walked deeper into the innards of the galleon, Jon noticed that Stannis' limp only worsened. Free from the need to appear strong, he began to grimace more. To lean on his cane as they made his way towards his chambers. "Your Grace," Jon said, keeping his hands at the ready to keep the King from falling if need be. "Have you seen a Maester?"

"I'll be fine," was the gruff response.

"Perhaps the Lady Melisandre…"

"I said I'll be fine." The tone was curt. Not a shout, but without room to continue. Sighing, Jon dropped the matter. A guard bowed in front of them, opening the door to the King's cabin. As it closed behind him, Jon watched as Stannis removed his cloak and hobbled towards a chair by the fire. "Lord Stark, I failed to properly thank you for saving me during the battle."

Once his King sat, Jon availed himself to a seat beside him. "You are my King, your Grace. It was my duty…"

Stannis waved him off. "If I am to punish treason and failure, then I must reward loyalty and success." He grimaced, teeth clenching as he pressed against his thigh. "Had you not been there, I would have had worse than a limp. Ser Davos told me you would be a loyal ally, and he did not disappoint."

"Ser Davos is a good man. He'll serve you well on your Small Council in the capital." Honest men such as his father Eddard Stark, Maester Aemon, or the Onion Knight were few and far between. The War of the Five Kings largely proved that. Looking back upon his King, Jon saw a particular look in Stannis. A far off gaze - one the grizzled veterans at Castle Black called a 'thousand-yard stare' - at the crackling flames within the hearth. His eyes upon the flames, shutting all out, but mind whirring. Gears turning within his head upon matters not grounded in current surroundings. "Your Grace?"

Baratheon blue eyes reflecting the flames, orange tongues dancing in an intricate melee, Stannis moved not. Released not a sound apart from soft breaths. Reflecting, thinking, channeling the close to unbearable pain from his leg into himself and his will. "I have known the Lady Melisandre for years, Lord Stark."

The words were sudden, Jon startled slightly by the abrupt manner in which Stannis spoke them. Hard as ever, there was a quiet about them. Words almost a murmur. "I have only known her for a short while, but she is quite a presence."

Attempt at calming humor lost on Stannis, the King continued. "She believes in me… supports me with a zeal bordering on worship. Calls me the savior, the Prince that was Promised. Claims that I will fight the defining battle in the snow that will rescue humanity from the dark, terrible night." Jon leaned back in his chair, merely listening. "I have seen what she can do. The magic she possesses, the miracles she can perform."

"I'll take your word for it, your Grace." Having seen giants, men that could change skins, ice monsters that could raise the dead, Jon would never doubt the mystic powers again. Melisandre was one of them.

"Even seeing all of that." A tinge of derision framed his voice. "Even seeing such power, such miracles - dark, terrifying, murderous miracles, I… part of me did not believe her. Framed in the humility of a second son." He chuckled dryly, laugh not reaching his eyes. "I left the grandiosity to Robert, the ambition above one's station to Renly. I seek what I seek because it's mine by right and my destiny by duty. No more and no less."

 _'I could have chosen a far worse King to pledge to.'_  Aside from that mythical monarch who could command both loyalty and adoration - balance love and duty - there would be none more dutiful than Stannis, no one else he could follow with a good conscience.

"But after what I've seen." His eyes glowed orange, reflecting the flames. "Fighting the demons of all Seven Hells. Watching the eyes of the scourge of the earth as he raised the dead…" Fists clenched, revelation shining throughout his expression, Stannis straightened. "There is no doubt in my mind, anymore. Fate brought me to the North. Through Ser Davos and Melisandre, I was there to save Castle Black. I was there to save the Wildlings." He smacked his chest. "I was there! Me!"

"You were, your Grace." Jon shifted, slightly uncomfortable. "Your presence turned the tide. Saved thousands from becoming meat in the Night King's army."

Stannis turned, eyes boring into Jon. "Don't you see, Lord Stark. It is all preordained. The loss at Blackwater, all was preordained." The expression flashed manic as if the dour King was filled with an almost otherworldly energy. "I cannot believe I didn't see it before... I was supposed to lose so that I would come here. This day, to see the true threat. To see my true purpose. Lord Stark, we are meant for this. My destiny to fight these monsters with you by my side. To end the terrors of the night. To be the Prince that was Promised, as Melisandre told me. She was right, right all along." He turned back to the fires, relaxed, expression fading back into a scowl. A flash of mania, returning to normal. "You may leave, Lord Stark. I require my rest before we land."

Rising, bending over in a shallow bow, the contortion spawned some pain, unfortunately. His body making sure he remembered he was injured. After that, Jon made his way out of the chambers.

* * *

The Tower of the Hand had more activity than normal, an unseen dread filling all that dwelled within. Unseen, but not unknown. The movements of Stannis Baratheon had everyone on edge. Kevan Lannister, the Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table as all the other members of the Small Council loudly argued about what to do next.

"Calm down, everyone, the mild-mannered younger brother of the great Tywin said, but his voice was lost in the cacophony. Those loyal to House Baratheon of King's Landing - effectively House Lannister, as anyone truly loyal to House Baratheon was with Stannis in the North - had every reason to panic at this point. They had recently become aware of the bastard son of Ned Stark rising as a legitimate Stark. They worried some of the Northern houses would cling to his side. As the rule of the brutish Boltons was not exactly adored in the North, a rehash of the War of the Five Kings was one no one desired.

House Lannister had barely survived the last time Stannis came.

Last they had heard Stannis was lingering by the Wall but had departed Castle Black. Grand Maester Pycelle thought it would be more prudent to treat with Stannis before the size of his army grew any further. The older man remembered the Battle of Blackwater Bay all too well. "Our best course of action is to try to communicate with Stannis Baratheon before he grows too strong. Perhaps offer him Storm's End and a position on this council?"

"Stannis and his army are thousands of miles away," Mace Tyrell pointed out. As Lord of the Reach and Warden of the South, he had the least to lose, and could afford to gamble - or more accurately, his mother could afford to gamble. "It could take months before he even gets close to King's Landing."

"Who stands in his way? The Boltons?" Kevan scoffed. "If Stannis gets by them, he can make his way South. Gathering more men for his army as he travels. Do you think the Freys stand much a chance against him? Mace, you know your Tyrell army can't beat a combined Stannis-Stark host in an open battle. And that doesn't even factor a Tully restoration in the Riverlands."

"What if we band together?" Mace suggested. "Surely all of our forces combined could be enough."

The council members continued to shout over each other and would have likely continued for hours, had the doors to the chambers not swung open. In walked Cersei and Jaime Lannister, along with Qyburn - the female half of the Lannister twins carried herself with her typical arrogance, blonde hair flowing as she halted before the councilors.

Each group stared at one another, the Small Council meeting halted completely. The only sound being the small sounds of the birds chirping outside the walls, room dimly lit by the sunlight breaching the windows. After a long silence, Kevan spoke up, "Can we help you?" Eye widening at Cersei.

"We were just wondering what is being done about Stannis Baratheon," Cersei said, clasping her hands.

"As it happens," Kevan exhaled, crossing his arms, "We had just begun to discuss that."

"What had you discussed," Jaime asked, raising his eyebrows. "Specifically. This is a real issue." He had been humbled upon returning from his captivity missing a hand, but now he had a steeled anger.

"I was going to mention… the addition of Jon Snow to Stannis' inner circle," Pycelle spoke up.

"Ned Stark's bastard?" Cersei scoffed. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"Stannis legitimized him," Kevan said. "That's why it matters. He's called Stark now."

Jaime nodded, moving closer, "Some of the other Northern houses may prefer a son of Ned Stark over the Boltons." He held a chair for Cersei, then took a seat next to her. "Frankly, the North only accepted the Boltons out of fatigue from the war."

Qyburn also grabbed a seat, "What sort of force could Stannis amass?"

"We don't know," Kevan shook his head. "He has his elite core of bannermen. Some other small northern houses have already clung is side."

"Where is he now?" Cersei asked, mind harkening back to cowering in the Red Keep as Stannis attacked. Sitting on the throne, her baby boy clutched her arms, waiting to knock back a couple flasks of poison. That outcome far more welcoming than appearing before Stannis as he broke down the walls of the throne room - the brother of the man she had cuckolded with her own brother. Those fears bubbled back up in her, Cersei hoping it didn't show on her face. Under the table, her hand went to Jaime's thigh, holding on for support.

Her twin looked at her, with a worried gaze, he might've leaned over to comfort her if they hadn't been in a public place. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her forehead. Nevertheless, his hand slithered down to hers. Knowing that his beloved sister was in a fragile mental state, having their only daughter die in his hands. A sight he hoped would leave the forefront of his mind. Sometimes, if he just closed his eyes he could see her, as the light left her eyes. Even though he'd excessively washed his palms, he still felt like the blood stuck to him. Double checking everything he touched for any trace of crimson.

Truly, he felt ashamed. He went to Dorne to save his daughter. He returned with her, just not in the way he expected. Instead of in his arms, she was in a box.

"Last we heard, lingering up North, he did leave Castle Black," Kevan replied, grimacing slightly. "We don't know where he's going."

"How could you not know?" Cersei raised her voice, impatiently.

"Our spies have trouble traveling up North," Kevan sighed.

"Perhaps, we need better spies," Qyburn pointed out. "I could provide these spies."

Cersei slapped her hand down on the table, "Yes. You should."

"Wait a minute… Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, leaning forward. "I would be very hesitant to trust this man. He was-"

"I don't care," Cersei snapped. "Qyburn, you will take care of this."

"I think we should ask the King first," Kevan said.

"You are Hand of the King," said Jaime. "You can sanction this."

"It is sanctioned," Cersei replied. "We need a new Master of Whispers. Qyburn, I appoint you."

Qyburn bowed, "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Now wait a minute-"

"I am the Queen Mother, my son will agree with me." Cersei defended herself like the caged lion she was. None considered even trying to tame her, not even Jaime. Having lost yet another child, Cersei seems more and more unhinged. She grieved for Myrcella for weeks. Now grief had become anger, the Queen mother violently protective of her last lion cub.

"Where is the King?" Mace asked.

"He is very busy."

"He should be here."

The meeting continued, everyone continued to argue, making no ground in any direction. No one in King's Landing ready for anything coming South, whether it be Stannis Baratheon or the terrors beyond the wall.

* * *

"Ready, my Lord?"

Fitting his boiled leather cuirass snug against his chest, Jon only felt a slight twinge of pain from his wound. Bandages still wrapped around it, but whatever the Lady Melisandre had put on it was working. "Just about, Devon. Fetch me my sword."

Behind him, Devon Seaworth bowed, scrambling quickly to grab Longclaw from the table at the far of the room. Jon couldn't help but chuckle softly. When Ser Davos mentioned that he - as a Lord - needed a squire, the Hand of the King's young four and ten son seemed like a logical choice.  _'A northern boy would be better.'_

 _'You don't have the north yet.'_  The boy was eager, and choosing him would only cement his relationship with the Hand - Jon hadn't spent much time with the royal family, but he could tell Queen Selyse didn't like him. Her look was the same as Lady Stark's from his childhood, a look Jon could identify anywhere. With the Red Woman and Davos on his side, however, Jon wasn't worried.

_'Politics. Fucking palace intrigue.'_

Devon fastening his scabbard to his hip, Jon finished with a sharp bun to hold in his hair. Stark direwolf emblazoned on the cuirass, actual direwolf trotting up next to him, he looked the epitome of a Northern Lord of old. "Let's go."

"Lord Stark," Davos nodded as Jon took to his mount beside him. "Ghost." The direwolf barked once, having taken kindly to the former smuggler - Ghost was an excellent judge of character, having hated Janos Slynt and Karl Tanner. "Ser Seaworth," he greeted his son with a teasing lilt.

"Ready?" Jon asked.

"Just about."

"Make way for the King!" All bowed atop their mounts as Stannis hobbled by, head up high and determination on his face. If his wound bothered him, he didn't show it. Plate and mail armor emblazoned with the burning stag of House Baratheon, he truly looked every inch a king as he mounted his steed. "Is my family ready, Ser Davos?"

"They are, your Grace."

Jon frowned. "Wouldn't they be better off remaining at Castle Black…"

"My family stays with me, Lord Stark. They are my luck, as is the Lady Melisandre." He looked back at the line of mounted knights, footsoldiers and wildlings behind. "We dine in Winterfell boys! Ours Is the Fury!"

"Haw-Hoo! Haw-Hoo!" Hooted the Baratheons.

Beside Jon, Ghost tossed his head back, letting out a piercing howl into the din - echoing out across the land.

Silent for a moment, the howl sent the Baratheon army into an even more frenzied cheer - joined even by the Wildlings. "HAW-HOO! HAW-HOO! HAW-HOO!" On the march yet again, except this time they headed in a much different direction.

South.

This time with four thousand more men. Wildling warriors, capable of fighting with a level of ferociousness unheard of in the Seven Kingdoms.

Gazing up at the sky, watching the grey clouds swirl in a churning fury, Jon closed his eyes. Imagining his family, those alive, those dead, and those of whom he had no idea. "I will avenge you," Jon murmured. His father… Robb. "I will save you." Sansa. "I will reclaim our home." Arya, Bran, Rickon. Benjen.

Drawing Longclaw, Jon shouted his own battlecry. "Winter comes for House Bolton!"

The army erupted in Baratheon fury, Wildling rage, and a Giant bellow. "WINTER COMES FOR HOUSE BOLTON!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is already a favorite of the soldiers - got a better reaction than Stannis did, lol.
> 
> We've modeled Stannis' leg wound as that of Henry VIII's famous jousting injury. Basically a large puncture that refuses to heal properly and is prone to infection. Would be quite painful, both literally and to Stannis' pride. Remember it, cause it's gonna be big.
> 
> We thought it was important that Jon be mended after the slash. The wound is physical and he feels it and will continue to feel it.
> 
> The wildlings won't kneel. We weren't going to make them and Stannis understood that. But he's a old timer, and he sticks to principles. He needed a physical pledge and heat the words. Not matter what Jon tells he doesn't fully trust the wildlings. Not yet at least. Though his trust in Jon is growing.
> 
> The next two chapters are huge and we're working a lot on them. 6 and 7 are some of the best shit I've ever really seen out of either one of us. Especially myself.
> 
> The explicit change is one we made because we really don’t wanna offend any more people. The Ramsay stuff made waves we didn’t intend. A higher rating just gives us more room and covers all the bases. I hope that’s not a problem. Of course there will be trigger warnings still, and I can tell you that you should be prepared.
> 
> Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it.
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, bookmarks.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	6. Blizzard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: This was one of the first chapters that were a real joy for us to write. In fact these next three are awesome. Realize that this story is now rated Explicit on Ao3, it will be treated as such. Those of you that had problems reading chapter 3 should be especially aware of this. I'm preparing you ahead of time.
> 
> Anyways, I do hope you think this one. It's a goodie.
> 
> Longclaw: Hey guys. This is a big chapter for Jon's development and the beginning of the three part War for the North. Gonna try something a bit different with Ramsay coming up, and I hope you enjoy it :D
> 
> Bookmark, kudos, and comment!

The Winterfell War Room hadn't been used for its named purpose in centuries. Perhaps the Dance of Dragons, perhaps all the way back to Aegon's Conquest when Torrhen Stark planned the ultimately futile defense against the Targaryens. Piled with books and chairs, it mostly served as an informal audience room for the Stark Wardens in the interim.

Now, with the Flayed Man having evicted the Direwolf, the War Room was back to being used for war. "So Stannis has arrived on the main road from Castle Black," Locke said, pointing to a line of Stag figurines in the Gift. "Apparently his trip north of the Wall was a success. He's got about four thousand wildling warriors with him."

Muffled curses came from those huddled around the table. "Fuck. That's basically doubling his fucking army!" Steelshanks Walton was not happy.

"They're just wildlings. Basically food for the dogs against Bolton hoplites," Ramsay retorted, arms crossed over his chest. "Have any Northern houses declared for him and Jon Snow?" No one dared acknowledge Ned Stark's bastard son's legitimacy in Winterfell. A squire slipped up once - one night with Ramsay and Myranda later, his flayed corpse in the courtyard served as a clear message.

"Some, my Lord," replied Locke, rearranging several markers atop the map table. At the head, Roose Bolton scowled. "House Mormont, along with Mazin, Hornwood, and the Mountain Clans. Altogether, about 660 men in total. All foot."

Chuckles came from around the table. "That's it?!" Harald Karstark laughed. "Jon Snow means to claim the North with that?!" Robb Stark's execution of Rickard Karstark was not forgotten in the North -  _The North Remembers_. House Karstark stood with House Bolton… the only one that did so. "Still, I wished we could have some more reinforcements. Smalljon Umber declined my requests, as did the Manderlys. Latter just wants to stay out of it, while the Umbers know that Stannis could just as easily sack Last Hearth on his way to Winterfell. We aren't getting reinforcements."

"Neither are they," pointed out Walton. "We've still got the advantage."

"But I have a feeling the weather will be more of a problem for House Baratheon." Ramsay waived his hand over the table. "A blizzard is coming. One that would even bring a northern force to heel. He's gonna have to stop, and that gives us the advantage to strike first."

It was then that Roose spoke, quiet thus far during the session. "Are you asking me to give you a strong portion of our force, risking annihilation? Our best advantage is our numerical one, and I am not risking that just because you say you can take Stannis down with several thousand men."

A scoff. "I'm saying give me several dozen men in white coats. Stannis will be crippled before ten minutes tick by and we'll be long gone."

Roose, looking up from the map table, narrowed his eyes at his son. "Several dozen against Stannis Baratheon? The entirety of the Reach couldn't dispatch him during the Siege of Storm's End, and you're telling me several dozen will?"

"We are of the North, father." Ramsay's grin widened, taking a consistency of that of a hyena. "Let us give them a proper Northern welcome. Stannis rules the storms, but we rule the blizzards, and our blades are sharp."

A tempting idea - Roose couldn't deny he lusted to see a southern pretender humbled once more by the North - but… "Jon Snow is of the North, and he rides with Stannis." Still, it was too tempting. End Stannis' threat before the Stag King could arrive. "Be careful."

Ramsay only grinned evilly in response.

* * *

Since the dawn of time, honor demanded that before a battle, the opposing forces ride out to meet each other. Oftentimes a formality, likely that there will be a fight no matter what, but sometimes one side surrenders. Sometimes both sides accepted terms to settle the matter peaceably. Not true of the occasion before the forces assembled on that unseasonably snowy day in the north - neither side willing to give an inch.

In the vastness of the land before Winterfell, Stannis and his subordinates galloped out to already waiting Boltons. The only noise around being the thumping of the hooves, horses coming to rest across from the others. Each camp toting the corresponding flag of their house, whipping in the wind. Fresh snow falling from the sky, piling below them.

Winterfell behind them, the Boltons stayed quiet. Roose was out front, a solemn scowl adorning his face. Ramsay and Locke waited close behind him, a leering smirk gracing the former - he was enjoying himself. Harald Karstark looking on with a frown as he stood astride his horse with the bannermen and flag bearers.

A larger group for the Baratheons. Stannis, grimaced as always - leg bothering him greatly, though he did not intend to show it - along with Jon and Ser Davos nearest him. In the back of the pack being Tormund, Karsi, Melisandre, and Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall.

"Must be a strange feeling, bastard," Ramsay called out, glaring at Jon. He opened her arms, "To be home, Winterfell, to come all this to be starchly defeated by the same house that killed your brother. We Boltons are quite good at killing Starks… it seems. Not that you are one, really."

"Are you done?" Jon scoffed. "You question my legitimacy but you yourself are a bastard."

Ramsay leaned forward, eyes wide, "My legitimacy came with a royal decree. Not the false words of a false King."

"Enough!" Stannis raised his voice. "We've come to talk terms of your surrender."

"Surrender?" Roose chuckled, looking back to his men behind him. Soon they all laughed.

Stannis narrowed his eyes. "Is something funny?"

"And they say we Northerns are dull," Roose said, smirking.

Ser Davos cleared his throat to draw attention to himself, "It would be wise to surrender, less bloodshed."

"You think we Boltons are scared of a little blood?" Ramsay snorted, he turned and pointed to his banner. "We flay men. They hang from the ramparts.  _We are blood._ "

"You can slay plenty of men in my service," Stannis retorted. "Slay many Lannisters, the ones who killed your men during the last war. Pledge yourself to me," he looked back at Jon. "Pledge yourselves to Jon Stark as your leige lord and release Sansa Stark back to him, and you'll get the Dreadfort, plus your choosing of the spoils when I take Lannisport and Casterly Rock. When your wife births your child, I'll grant him or her Moat Cailin by my decree as an added incentive."

Generous terms, ones Stannis would not be likely to give in normal times - a seller's market for Roose Bolton. Jon knew they would reject them all - and the Boltons didn't disappoint. "We'll take our chances on the battlefield," Locke spoke up.

Jon's voice aired out, "Whether you like it or not, I'm a Stark now." His finger raised in the direction of Winterfell, "That's my home. The ancestral rest of my house, Stark. You have no claim to it. You wrested it from my brother dishonorably." He glared daggers at the Lord of the Dreadfort. "Roose Bolton, you murdered my brother, your King, at a wedding. You will  _die for that,_  hopefully by my own hand." His fist clenched, "Ramsay  _Snow_ , you've taken my sister against her will. Gods willing, I'll take your own life for that… The rest of you who stand with House Bolton will  _die_  with them. King Stannis' army is unparalleled to yours. My own blade won't be sated until all of you are  _dead_." The words flowed from his tongue with a fury he didn't know he possessed. Nothing angered him more than thinking of how his family was slaughtered as he was powerless to stop it.

He was not powerless now.

As Jon spoke, no one dared interrupted as to not feel the flame of his words. Ser Davos stared at him as if he didn't know who he was looking at. Stannis looked proud, in his own way. Even Roose, remembering a glimpse of a shy, whipped dog of a bastard during his own pre-war visits to Winterfell, blinked in surprise.

Suddenly, the silence was broken with a cackling laugh. "A nice sentiment," Ramsay said. "To bad it won't come to fruition."

"It must if I say it will."

Stannis grumbled, "If you do not wish to surrender. Then we will meet you on the battlefield. Your defeat will be swift."

"I must disagree, Lord Baratheon," Roose said, defiant. "Till we meet again." He began to turn his horse around.

"The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors, Lord Bolton," Melisandre called out, smirk on her face as she guided her horse right between Jon and her King. Looking at her from over his shoulder, Roose couldn't help but feel a shudder course through him.

* * *

His sleep was restless, dreams slamming into his mind with the vicious power of a giant charge. Dark dreams, dreams of his family. His father Ned Stark, head falling from his body. Of his brother Robb, watching as his entire family and retinue was butchered in front of him before Roose Bolton slit his throat. Of his sister Sansa, being mercilessly tortured by the bastard of the Dreadfort. Their pained screams calling to Jon, berating him for not being there. For not protecting him.

And suddenly, the images changed to one unfamiliar. A dragon, colored the purest silver, roaring as winged demons surrounded her. Alone, begging for help. For another. As blackness surrounded the scene, Jon found himself wishing he could be the one answering the beast's call…

"ARRRRGGGHHHHH!"

Jon bolted out of bed into a literal nightmare. Orange-red glowed through his tent, a brilliant mosaic of color flowing in a fluid dance. On near instinct, grabbing Longclaw and racing outside, the beauty transformed into terror as he was brought face to face with the fire. The northern weather had picked up since he retired to his tent, now snow fell heavy from the sky. The flakes danced with red flames reaching up to the sky.

"My Lord!" it was Devan, his squire. "We're under attack!"

" _I can fucking see that!_  Who?!" he finally asked, eyes wide and searching among the chaos - Baratheon bannermen scrambling every which way in a panicked frenzy.

"No one fucking knows!" The young man looked terrified, swordhand shaking. "It just happened out of nowhere!"

Running a hand through his hair, curly locks loose and wild, Jon spotted something odd - a virtue of keeping a clear, calm mind. While hundreds panicked, two men weren't. Clad in mere homespun cloaks, Jon spotted a flash of pure white underneath.  _Whitecloaks. Northern winter warriors…_  One man carried a torch, creeping towards the tents holding the siege weapons.

It clicked. "Raiders!" Jon hollard into the din, Longclaw drawn as he charged towards the raiders. Having just thrown the torch into the tent, the raider had just noticed the attacking lord when the blade hacked off his head. The other raised his axe to set upon Jon, but was instead set upon by the snarling white direwolf. A sharp jerk of Ghost's jaw ripped out the raider's throat, leaving him bleeding and gurgling upon the snow. A quick peek into the tent. The torch hadn't yet caught, but was close to some dry wood. "Fuck!" Jon spotted movement. "You two! Kick snow on that torch! Now!"

"Jon!" It was Davos, panting alongside his son. "What the fuck happened?! Half of our siege tents are ablaze and our horses are being butchered!"

"Boltons." Jon watched as Tormund, Karsi, and about two dozen wildling warriors arrived on scene. "The Northern way, harass and bushwhack until enemies turn back. Kept us independent until Aegon Targaryen."

"Kept the crows from fucking with us," added Tormund, axes in hand and eager to rip apart those that interrupted his sleep. "Cunts did their damage. Probably forming up somewhere on the edge of camp."

Jon couldn't fault Tormund's logic. "Davos, get bucket brigades to put out the fires! Karsi, go get Wun Wun and more warriors in case we need support." Twin nods. "Tormund, Devan, with me!" Ghost whined. A split second of levity that grounded Jon. "You too boy, let's go!"

Chaos still reigned within the Baratheon camp. Rule one of any raid - wreak havoc on certain, specific areas and then let the panic of one's foes turn it into a complete clusterfuck. And such was Ramsay's genius at work. Setting fires in the artillery tents, releasing the horses upon the camp. The chaos they brewed up only resulted in a maze of friendly fire incidents, usually involving the cavalry. Only enterprising efforts of the King and Ser Davos were able to control the insanity.

Work done to near perfection, the Bolton infiltrators gathered near the outskirts of the camp. Near a useless supply dump, one that the Baratheons would be obvious to abandon to protect the siege weapons and horses. They shed their grey cloaks, ready to use their snow-white shrouds to blend into the vast late autumn snowdrifts. "Keep lively men," Ramsay announced, sheathing his skinning knife, slick with Stormlander blood. "Rest for a moment, and then…"

A scream cut him off as a blur of white leapt out of the snowdrifts. One of his men was taken by a massive direwolf, teeth sinking into flesh and blood spurting on the snow. What followed was a bellowing, savage cry as the wildlings emerged. Like ice demons sprouting out of nowhere. The warriors of always winter.

Ramsay drew out his knife once more, cursing under his breath. Rage building inside him as his brilliant plan was unraveling at the hands of  _Wildlings_. "Flay the cunts alive!" he snarled, leaping at a wildling as the rendezvous point descended into a furious melee. He quickly slashed through the man in front of him.

Since the days of the Kings of Winter, House Bolton had been the noble house infamous for brutality. Their sigil a flayed man, their motto 'Our Blades Are Sharp,' the savagery of House Bolton extended far into the past - when the Red Kings of the Dreadfort battled the Kings of Winter in Winterfell for control of the north. Many a Lannister or Tyrell trembled at the sight of Bolton banners during the War of the Five Kings, their reputation causing quite a few routs while fighting for Harrenhal.

But against wildlings, they were civilized. They were out of their element. Wild and crazed, almost to the point of enchantment, Tormund and his warriors were upon them like unholy demons of childhood ghost stories. Axes swung, swords glinted, spears spilled crimson blood upon the snow. All semblance of order disintegrated as Bolton fought FreeFolk.

And Jon was in the middle of the melee, Longclaw whetting a taste for Bolton blood. A raider swung wildly at him, but the former brother of the Night's Watch glided fluidly through the snow. Dodging the blow and delivering one of his own, splattering blood through a deep gash in the back. His cuirass was covered in blood, cold infecting his very core, but Jon ignored it all. Blocked it all. Hacking and slashing like a dancer. A one man army. He stabbed another raider through the middle as Ghost took on another setting up to attack him.

"Jon Snow!" Jon had barely turned his head before he scrambled back from a wild knife slash. The grinning visage of Ramsay Bolton was before him in the low orange light. "The bastard shows himself." Shield clutched in the other hand, Ramsay darted forward, massive skinning knife thirsty for the flesh of the rightful Lord of Winterfell. "I'm gonna enjoy flaying you alive for your sister to watch!"

Jon nimbly darted out of yet another slash. "Not today, Bolton." With a snarl he went on the offensive, slashing Longclaw down repeatedly. Ramsay parried with his shield, but upon the third blow the iron-lined wood snapped in two, material shattering from the sharp Valyrian steel. Jon readied to launch a final strike but was sent sprawling back from a wild punch.

"Stupid stupid, Jon Snow," Ramsay's laugh echoed through the melee. Cackling a pure evil worse than the howling wind itself. "Thinking you can tangle with me?" A Freefolk ran at him, But Ramsay dodged the wild axe swing, blade sinking into his chest before the Bolton kicked him off. "The man stuck on the ends of the earth while his own brother died like a dog?"

Spitting blood onto the ground, Jon charged at Ramsay, knocking them onto the snow. One punch landed on a rib, responded to with a duo of punches to his side. He reached for Longclaw, rippled steel lying close in the drifts. But Ramsay took the moment to knock Jon off balance, flipping them and sending his own skinning dagger down towards Jon's chest. Only a quick block stopped the thrust… a stalemate, muscles straining to gain advantage.

The knife glinted in the orange-red light of the distant fires, as if the blade of a demon. Face to face with Ramsay's malevolent grin, the comparison was apt. "Enjoy your last moments, bastard. Enjoy as I end your life…" The steel inched lower and lower towards his heart, the Bolton heir's voice a hissing whisper, eyes glowing with madness and mania. "Enjoy, knowing that your head will be in the room. Every. Time. I take your whore of a sister…"

It was as if a sudden fire filled Jon. Coursing through his body, flames licking and blazing in an uncontrollable inferno. Heating him to near wildfire. Eyes glowing in white hot rage. With a strength he did not know before, Jon forced the knife back with a sudden thrust of his arm, batting it aside. Headbutting Ramsay square in the forehead, he surged ahead. Maw agape in the snarl of a wolf.

The snarl ceased, replaced by an anguished cry. Ramsay screamed in pain as the metallic taste of blood filled Jon's mouth. Soon the weight upon his chest disappeared. His foe scrambling up, hand clutching the side of his head and face contorted in agony as he fled backwards.

Leaping to his feet, Jon spat something onto the snow. He cared not for the bruises dotting him, the small cuts that likely pierced his skin. Furious eyes, still blazing a burning fury, searched for Ramsay. For the monster that brutalized his sister. But he was gone… vanished into the snow amongst the other Bolton raiders.

Raiders that were about to get the better of his Wildlings.

Just then, Jon's rage-filled haze was broken with the guttural bellow of legend. There, behind him charged Wun Wun, over a hundred FreeFolk behind him charging through the snowdrifts. The giant entered the fray with a kick to a lone raider - the man flew over fifty feet, journey broken only as his body shattered against a tree trunk.

Wildlings passing him, shrieking with a savage bloodlust as the Thenns and Whitefoots set upon the Bolton raiders that hadn't fled the field into the icy deluge beyond, Jon felt his body slacken. His rage flee him as fast as it came. Reaching down to pick up his sword, he found himself looking upon the object he had spat upon the ground.

An ear… rather the top half of an ear. Crimson flecks of blood staining the snow beneath it.  _Ramsay Bolton's ear._  The anger returned, this time not the white hot intensity seemingly out of nowhere. More the simmering rage of a wolf.  _I will finish what I started tonight, Ramsay Bolton._  he thought, gripping Longclaw as he charged with the wildlings.

* * *

Even to those that knew him intimately, Stannis Baratheon seemed to only have two expressions: dour… and angry. Right now, he was enraged… though trying his damndest to control his temper - and temper his raging leg pain. "What is the status of our cavalry?" he hissed.

Davos shifted on his feet. He hated to give Stannis bad news, but giving a rosy interpretation of everything wouldn't solve anything. "Bad, your Grace. The Bolton raid and subsequent fires took out almost half our mounts. And that's not all…" He set his lips in a grim expression. "A sellsword company, the Stormcrows, rode off with most of our other horses. We have about a hundred left that aren't wounded."

"Fucking sellswords." Stannis spat on the ground. "Probably offering themselves to Roose Bolton like whores." He looked in the direction of the pens where they kept the captured raiders. "Did we get the Bolton bastard?"

Ser Gerald Gower shook his head. "No, your Grace. He is presumed free." Curses from both the King and the Lord of Winterfell at that. "What should I do with those we did capture? The Lady Melisandre wishes to burn them…"

"Do as she says," the King responded abruptly. Gower bowed and darted off. Stannis ran a hand down his face. "Please tell me there is some good news in this mess." It was a half question, half plea.

Surprisingly, Jon had some to give him. "The Northern Houses arrived this morning." The King's brow rose. "Sixty-two Mormont and men-at-arms. One-hundred forty-three Mazin and two hundred Hornwood horses. Not the same number but should replace the Stormcrows. And two hundred warriors from the Mountain clans…"

Stannis huffed. "Practically wildlings themself." Further curses. "Most of my wildlings are archers, a third of my infantry are archers or crossbowmen, and Bolton destroyed all my siege weapons. I'm worse off." A light chuckle escaped him, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Even with a giant in my army, I'm fucking worse off."

"Your Grace, if I may?" Jon waited, eventually getting a gruff nod from the King. "Roose can wait us out for months if he has to. He has Winterfell, a protracted siege only hurts him. We need to face him in open battle, and our apparent... weakness would make him more likely to both give us such a battle and be overconfident in fighting it."

Resolve welling within him, the wheels turned inside the King's mind. Battle strategies, tactical movements mapping themselves out, plotting over the topography of the ground between them and Winterfell. As if by magic, it all began to piece itself together.

Stannis met the gaze of each and every one of his war council. Making sure they knew what duty and necessity would demand in the coming days. "Butcher the wounded horses, and get ready for a march." Above, he could see the sun spearing through the swirling grey clouds for the first time in weeks. "One way or another, it will end soon, My Lords. Either we have Winterfell, or we die."

* * *

The rag slid along the smooth Valyrian steel, motion repeated for the fiftieth time in an empty gesture. Brienne of Tarth knew that Oathkeeper was clean. Shining just as brightly in the weak northern sun as it had in the bright sun of the Crownlands when Jaime Lannister gave it to her. But the simple act of cleaning the blade calmed her, a habit picked up from the days of her childhood when her father began training her. Calmed Brienne in times of the greatest stress.

Which this time was.

Ever since Podrick raced over to her with tales of Baratheon banners and an army of Wildlings advancing through the snow, Brienne had been a haze. She looked down on her sword.  _'Oathkeeper.'_  How ironic, considering her current circumstance. Brienne would have laughed had it not been so serious.

Two oaths. Two liege lords to keep fealty to. One, Renly Baratheon, herself a sworn member of his Kingsguard and her childhood protector - sworn to protect him and to avenge his death. Killed by Stannis Baratheon through black magic. The other, Catelyn Stark. Sworn in the Stormlands, sworn to find her daughters and bring them to her, to the North. An oath she nearly died fighting the Hound over.

But which to follow? Hence the rag ghosting over the gleaming steel.

She had sworn to Renly first, and Catelyn Stark was dead - one stab of her blade could end Stannis' life and avenge Renly. But Renly was also dead, while Sansa Stark was alive. Tortured within Winterfell, if the rumors were to be believed. 'You know them to be true.' Her brother was within Stannis' army, the closest glimmer of safety Sansa could have.

Brienne couldn't save Renly, only avenge him. But she could save Sansa.

In that moment, her hand stilled. She knew what she had to do.

* * *

After the war council, Jon retreated to his tent. Fully feeling his body remind him of his injury. In the moment, slashing through all those Boltons didn't wear him down. But hours later, it did. His chest tightened up, breaths hurting. He wondered if through all his exertions he had reopened the wound.

Once out of the wind and snow, Jon nearly collapsed right then and there. He buckled his sword belt and tossed it aside, his body fell onto the bed before he knew what was happening. Mere seconds later, his eyes closed he felt himself drift off to sleep. But before his mind went blank, the tarp allowing entrance to his tent flew open, letting the wind through.

Being as though they were just attacked, he should've leaped up, blade at the ready. Yet, his eyes didn't open at first. The presence of whoever entered didn't seem threatening. In fact, a welcoming heat flooded the room. Forcing Jon to finally open his eyes.

He saw Melisandre approaching him, wearing that same old thin gown, and a smirk upon her face.

"My Lady, what are you doing here? It's late," Jon said, sitting up.

"I've come to see you, Lord Stark." She drew near to him.

Feeling unsettled - as always - around her, Jon cleared his throat, "Why?"

Standing over him, she smiled, her hand grasping his chin, "The Lord of Light sees something in you, Jon Stark."

Slowly, he moved her hand away, "I still don't know what that means."

Melisandre moved to sit next to him, and he resisted the urge to stand up and leave. Jon wasn't not sure what exactly unnerved him about her. Her incessant need to be near him, and her blind loyalty to this 'Lord' of hers. It all sounded like horseshit to him. But Stannis believed in whatever she was spouting, that made him honestly curious.

Nevertheless, he still doesn't wanna be this close to her. He couldn't work out what her intentions were.

"You have a role to play," she said, her hand snaking over his back.

"You keep saying that," Jon snapped, impatiently. "Tell me what that means? I have a  _role_ … to play?"

She slid even closer to him, not backing down, "Whether you know it or not, you serve the Lord's purpose. The Great War is coming, the only war that matters. Let me show you what you're fighting for."

Jon scoffed, "You gonna show me a vision in the fire?"

"No visions, no magic, just life," she whispered softly to him, then shifted herself to straddle him. His initial surprise melted away his sourness, feeling her heat against his chest. Heart picking up it's pace as she undid her gown, revealing her breasts to him. His breath caught in his throat at the sight, long since his encounters with his Wildling lover. She brought his hand up, brushing over her chest, then over her heart. "You feel that? My heart beating? It's life."

Jon nodded, "Aye." His voice low.

She cups his face, "There's power in you and you resist it, that's your mistake. I've seen it appear only a few times. We have power… together, you and I. A male and a woman, together can make life, and light." Her face drew but a few inches away from him.

"I don't think Stannis would like that very much."

"Then we mustn't tell him." With that she moved in, their lips brushed against each other. Her hands moving to undo his tunic.

"I loved another."

She smirked, "The dead don't need lovers, Lord Stark. Only the living."

Despite his body very much wanting to give in, remembering the joys of coming together with a woman. That only made her face flash across his mind, memories flooding his brain. How they made love in that cave, climbing the wall, embracing at the top.

Her dying in his arms, watching the light leave her eyes, her last breath hitting his face. Forgetting all around him, the fighting, and just clutching her tight to him, pleading for her to come back to him. When she didn't he wanted to cry, but no tears ever came. Even when he burned her body.

Any lust he felt flushed away then, Jon pushed against Melisandre, nearly tossing her onto the ground. "I loved her. I still love her. Doesn't matter if she's gone, I still remember her."

She stood, a small frown on her face, tying her gown back together. Jon watched as she went to leave, but before she stepped out, she turned back and glared at him. "You know nothing Jon Snow." With that, she was gone.

Lying down in the darkness, Jon felt his mind whirr in thought.  _'She is gone.'_  A voice told him.  _'You hung up the black. You have no reason to resist.'_  All true… but something held him back. Call it hesitance, call it respect for the dead, call it… a feeling about his fate, Jon just couldn't.

Drifting back to sleep, his last thought was that it wasn't necessarily Ygritte. But the memory of her, and the happiness she brought him, also the pain of losing her.

He wondered if he could ever endure something like that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: With someone who actually knows Northern warfare, the Bolton raid went far differently. I had fun writing the Ramsay scene, Jon learning what Karl Tanner taught him in a far different way... this time, it's his own initiative. I know, he won't be completely shorn of his bastard identity, but officially being a Stark would make some difference.
> 
> I hope y'all notice the foreshadowing. We actually know what we're doing here, and we intend it to actually be good.
> 
> The Battle of Winterfell will be out in two parts. Be sure to review :D
> 
> BRuh4: Damn, love the ride out scene, I really do. I ended up writing most of it and that speech by Jon felt so good off the fingertips. We mean it when we say we love badass Jon, and he got some action in this one... with more to come.
> 
> 7 and 8 are fucking amazing (Longclaw: they are, believe me). I'm not even gonna sit here and not mention it. We're really putting some good shit out here. I'm not sure when they'll drop. But we're probably pretty close.
> 
> Thanks for all the love and support y'all. We really appreciate it. Keep it coming.
> 
> Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it.
> 
> Leave your comments, bookmarks, and kudos.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	7. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Okay people, prepare yourselves. This one and the next are going to actually blow your minds. Two of the best chapters so far and more to come.
> 
> We're real excited.
> 
> Big shoutout to my co-writer here guys, he did a whole lot to with the battle stuff.
> 
> Also, huge TRIGGER WARNING for the first scene here. If you had issues with the scene in chapter 3 you might wanna skip ahead a bit. It's pretty intense, no lie. Please if it gets to bad please don't feel like you have to read it.
> 
> Longclaw: I was eager to write this chapter, as the battle scenes are a favorite of mine. It's hard to write battles, given they are so easily romanticized but in reality are complex moving parts of chaos, death, and muck. With the limits of viewpoint characters, I try to use a more objective writing style to capture everything.
> 
> Regarding the size of the armies, Roose Bolton has 13,000 men (both the Boltons and Karstarks avoided the chaos of the Red Wedding and had their armies intact for the most part) and Stannis has about 9,400.
> 
> Kudos, comment, and bookmark!

He watched his battered bride lay face down on the feather bed. Exhausted after another round of a one-sided affair. Ramsay Bolton sat at their table, slicing through a slab of meat with a thick steak knife, guzzling down gulps of ale between bites in the wee morning hours. Every couple minutes he'd shake his head, still feeling the missing piece of his ear. The missing chunk was lost to the snow, so the Bolton just sported part of his right ear. Anyone would who stared too long at it got a fist to the face. Anyone who commented on it getting flayed upon the Winterfell battlements.

Except one, though. The shame from his father was abundant, the only man Ramsay couldn't touch. But the heir to the North would make it up to him in tomorrow's battle. Presenting his father Jon Snow's head.

As always, Theon stood by the door, quiet as always, head hung low. His master turned to him after he drank the last of his goblet, "Reek, go get some more ale. I'm thirsty this morning." His servant bowed, then left.

The only light in the room being the lit candles on the table, and the moonlight coming through one of the windows. All is quiet. Despite the Baratheon army lingering close to Winterfell's walls.

"I'm to go fight upon the dawn, wife," Ramsay said, chewing. "Aren't you going to wish me off in the morn'?" He waited for a response, but Sansa didn't move a muscle. "Wife? I'm talking to you."

The Bolton had taken her again - this time Sansa didn't much fight back. Even with the possibility of being rescued, she couldn't find a reason. She was just so weak.  _'He will do whatever he wants no matter what I do.'_  So there she was, laying down, not that much fight left. She couldn't bother to respond to her monster of a husband. A terrible man, seeing her now would make any young girl swear off men forever. Even if she survived this, Sansa wasn't too sure she could stand the sight of a man again, especially in an intimate way.

"Wife?!" Ramsay growled, utensils clattering against the table. "I'm talking to you!"

Finally, at the possible threat of more of the same, Sansa moved. She shifted around until she could sit up straight on the bed, rubbing her eyes until her vision returned. Though once she saw the grin on his face, she almost wished she couldn't see at all. Thankfully, he stayed where was for the time being.

She spoke up, her voice hoarse, the body still weak, "What is it?" All down her arms, she could feel where he gripped her, how hard he held on. Remembering how now all she could do was go limp, even that brought pain.

"I've been talking to you. Have you heard a word I said?"

Despite her mind blank, she had caught a few words. She breathed out, "Yes, you're to go fight tomorrow."

"Who am I fighting?"

"Stannis Baratheon."

"And?"

"My brother."

"That's right, sweet wife," Ramsay said, smirking. "You know what's gonna happen to him?"

She wished she could say for sure. Hoping that he'd come to save her, cut down anyone in his way. But in truth, she didn't even know if he knew she was here. But, deep down, a part of her knew that he was coming for her. A flutter of hope bubbled up in her belly, only to flatten out when she looked upon her husband again.

She must have smiled by accident again. Knowing it was probably her brother who tore through his ear didn't help.

He rose up with a scowl, "Wife, you do know what's going to happen to your bastard brother, right?" He came over near to her, "Don't you?" Frowning, he grabbed her by the legs and pulled her to him, lifting her off the bed, he held her close. She tried to avoid his gaze, but he gripped her by the neck, restraining her.

"Look at me," he said. "When we crush the Stag King and his fucking army, I'll drag your bastard brother by his feet across the battlefield. I'll bring him here. I'll flay him right in front of you, make sure that you watch as he dies." He breathed in her face, eyes wide, "That's what's going to happen to your brother."

Suddenly, something in her snapped. A wolf, restrained for so long by sheer brutality and fear, suddenly let loose with a raging fury. Sansa surged forward, kneeing him in the crotch as hard as she could. Ramsay gasped, falling on the floor - stunned that his wife actually struck him. Now, the sight of her horrible husband holding onto his groin in pain, that did bring a smile to her face.

"You… bitch!"

Before he could come back at her, she jumped out of the way. His leap missed, flipping over the bed. She retreated to the table, trying to find something to defend herself with. Her eyes set on the knife but before she could grab it, Ramsay crashed into her. Both of them colliding into the table, sending it over on its side, the noise echoing through the room. All the plates shattered against the ground, food sent flying, if not for the stone floor the candle might've sparked a flame.

Sansa hit the ground, the air leaving her lungs. Ramsay landed nearby.

Her eyes wandered around, looking for the knife. She found it, just out of arm's reach, to her right, near one of the legs of the bed. Slowly, her hand moved out to try to grab it.

But her vision blotted out all of the sudden, Ramsay's hand had hit her. Fist or palm, she didn't know. All she knew is that her eyes went blurry. When she regained her sight, Ramsay crouched next to her. "See what you make me do?"

She tried to get to the knife, ignoring him. Of course, he saw this. Cackling as he stomped on her wrist, pain coursed through her. He picked it up, "You wanted this? What were you gonna do?  _Stab me?_ " He shrugged and tossed it over his shoulder near the door.

Only faintly able to move her fingers on her right hand, Sansa cried out, tears forthcoming.

"Come on, dear wife," Ramsay sighed. Picking her up, "You brought this on yourself." Like he had many times over the past few weeks, he tossed her lifeless body onto the bedding. Some might think that doing this over and over would bore him - not Ramsay Bolton. He turned her over onto her back, then slapped her around a few more times, just because he could.

Behind him, the door slowly slid open, frail Theon moved through the door, shaking so much that some of the ale in the pitcher he carried spilled out.

Ramsay heard him, turning around from his conquest, "Oh! Reek. I'd say put that on the table… but as you can see the wife and I are having a disagreement." He exhaled, standing up a moment to undo his pants. Theon lingered near the doorway, so Ramsay beckoned to him, "Come on in, Reek. Put that pitcher down anywhere. It'll be but a moment. Have to save my strength for when I flay Jon Snow."

"Fuck you... you animal," Sansa croaked out, defiant.

Sluggishly, Theon fully entered the room, unable to fully look upon the scene before him. He just held on tighter to the pitcher, watching as Ramsay crawled over Sansa. He twitched, trying to look away but he knew his master wanted him to watch. Somehow, he'd know if he didn't watch. Nothing was more horrible to see, in all his years of life, nothing made his stomach turn more. Whatever he'd eaten would come up in his throat just as quick as it went down.

His eyes widened, as Sansa's red hair flashed up. A girl he once knew, grew up with. Cared for.

For her, it was all nothing. Nothing left. It kept happening, nothing she could do about it. She was completely helpless.

Until it stopped, suddenly. The sound of something smacking against the floor, liquid spilling.

Ramsay lurched forward over her, he groaned in pain. "Ah! What the fuck?!" He crawled off his wife, feet hitting the floor, arms reaching for his back.

His body hit against the stone walls nearest him, a knife sticking out from the middle of his back. Buried deep, but so much as to kill him immediately. He tried to reach it, but somehow the knife was placed in the spot that neither hands can reach. Looking like there's a spot he can't itch. Also a shaking Theon, backing up, staring at his hands.

"Reek?" Ramsay gasped, still grimacing, managing to get his pants back up. He slid along the wall towards his creation, reaching out to him. "Come here, Reek."

Theon retreated further until he hit the far wall, trying to find any place to get away. Ramsay bounded off the wall towards him, knife still lodged in his back. He banged against Theon, both of them hitting the wall, heads knocking together. Theon moved away, trying to regain his senses. Being small and thin, he was nimble. Whereas Ramsay was stumbling, after taking the blade to his back.

Gathering his courage, Theon ran straight into Ramsay with all his power. It was enough to force Ramsay back far enough until he hit the far wall again. This time with his hind toward it, so the knife only dug further into his flesh.

He yelped, "Fuck!" His shirt soaking in crimson fluid. Theon was close to him now, though. He grabbed him by the neck, large palms fully encapsulating his throat, lifting up, Theon's feet leaving the ground. Theon's thin legs kicked against the Bolton, while he failed to breathe. While he no longer had much a groin, Ramsay did, so an aimed foot to his crotch did force to him to release Theon.

He fell to his rear, trying to return the air to his lungs. Ramsay didn't give him much time to recover, pushing the attack. The larger man jumped onto Theon, quickly delivering fists to the face. Just that was enough to weaken Theon to barely conscious.

Pushing up on the bed, Sansa watched with wide eyes. "Theon!" she shouted, though somewhat quietly. Her shout sending a livewire through him. He would not betray Sansa as he did all other Starks.

Laughing, Ramsay spat on Theon, "What are you doing, Reek? Trying to rise up against me?" He got down close to his face, within inches, whispering, "Do you want to die that bad-"

He couldn't finish.

Mostly because Theon's teeth latched onto his throat, digging into the soft flesh.

Ramsay croaked, "Reek-" Was all he could get out before Theon jerked his head around, tearing through Ramsay's jugular. Blood flowed through the wound like a flood. Covering Theon's face in crimson, yet undeterred, he went back in. Ripping another piece of Ramsay's throat out - finishing what Jon started. Calling upon what part of him that was a Stark, the direwolf in him, coming out fiercely. Remembering how Greywind used to do it, rip through a man's throat. Tables turning, Ramsay became the who's helpless as couldn't even attempt to halt the flow of his blood. That being enough to make his body go lifeless, falling onto Theon, blood still coming.

On the bed, Sansa used what strength she had left to lift up. She saw Ramsay on top of Theon, neither moving in the slightest. "Theon?" Her small voice called out.

All she got in response was a quiet moan from under Ramsay, then a hand reached out into the air. Slowly, Theon pushed Ramsay off of him. The body flopping over like a wet piece of meat. Theon still didn't get up, he struggled to get all the blood out of his mouth. He spat parts of Ramsay's flesh out of his mouth, wondering if the taste would ever leave his tongue, bland iron.

"Theon, are you alright?"

Finally, her rescuer sat up, soaking in blood, so much it dripped off his shoulders. His breathing ragged, heart beating out of its cage. He looked over to Ramsay, the man who had taken more from him than imaginable. His eyes rolled back, neck left in torrid shape, blood pooling on the cold stone floor.

Then he looked over to Sansa, with blood-stained teeth, he said:

"Sansa… we need to leave."

* * *

Just as sudden as the autumn blizzard came, it had vanished. The sky was overcast, but only a thin cloud cover blocking out the northern sun. Snow beginning to melt, the ground of the clearing between the Wolfswood losing the icy hardness of days past. Beginning to soften.

Such was an advantage to the attacking force before Winterfell's walls… one of the only advantages. Banners flew high, those of the Stag, Direwolf, and several other smaller houses fluttering in the cold wind of the north. Lined up along the open ground between the tree cover, formations thick with the dismounted men-at-arms, mounted Northerners, and scattered Wildling reserves. Wracked with cold, many malnourished and suffering from various camp illnesses, they were hard. They were weak. And with their King at the frontline with them - mounted atop his feet like the rest of them - whatever pain or fear or discomfort was swept away. They had marched through and endured this gods forsaken land, and would end this fight one way or another.

Before them were over thirteen thousand elite forces under the Bolton banner. Putrid smoke wafting from several staves mounted in the ground, each hosting a flayed prisoner, doused in pitch and burned alive. Before the wall of cavalry in the van, Locke gazed upon the enemy force with a smirk. "They can't be serious. No cavalry? Mostly dismounted men at arms?" He laughed, spitting on the ground. "And barely any wildlings! Only a thousand at most, give or take."

"Fuckers must have deserted him." Harald Karstark laughed. "Told ya' they were nothin' but savages."

Locke felt his dander rising, eager to notch more victories on his belt. He would enjoy having Bear Island as a prize for his loyalty. "We should attack in full."

Roose merely frowned. "Where is my son?" There was no sign of him. "He is supposed to lead the charge?"

"Perhaps he's still fucking his bride?" Locke suggested. Both knew what the term 'fucking' meant in connection to Ramsay.

"The Stag King won't wait, neither can we," Roose grimaced, nodded slowly. "That boy has tested my patience for far to long… Fuck him. He can rot for all I care." Roose was not a sentimental man. "Loose arrows. Show them who holds the north."

"Nock!" bellowed the command, as over five hundred archers plucked their arrows from the ground in front of them and sheathed them to their bows, drawing their strings. Across the field, the Baratheon archers - nearly one hundred elite bowmen from House Florent of the Reach - followed suit. "Loose!" Hundreds of arrows filled the air, arcing upwards in a commingling swarm before plunging down in an unseeing, unfeeling mission of death. Shields were raised, men crouching as the malevolent rain began to sprinkle among them. Seeking out all unprotected flesh, spurts of blood and brain staining the snow and grass below.

One volley was enough for Stannis. "Men!" Despite his injury, and the agony it still sent coursing through his system, he still bellowed with the Baratheon fury. "Advance to the rear!" And just like that, the men of the Stormlands fell back. Some in good order. Others in less than good order. The latter hurting the image of the former toward any onlookers.

With his fellow cavalrymen of Karkold, Harald Karstark smirked. "Look at that boys!" he announced with a flourish. "Southerners flee at the sight of northern steel, weak from the gales of northern snow!" Whoops left the throats of the Karstark men, anger still burning bright at their lord being killed by Robb Stark merely for seeking justice against the Lannisters.

The fact that their new liege lord had killed Robb Stark on behalf of the Lannisters was lost on them.

Haughty, arrogantly, Harald raised his sword high in the air. "Let's show the bastard Jon Snow a taste of justice!" With a harsh battlecry, the five hundred men and mounts of Karhold charged straight for the withdrawing Baratheons.

"What the fuck is Karstark doing?!" Bolton was furious at the lack of discipline.

Locke didn't see it that way. "My Lord, Lord Karstark is not wrong to charge. They are pulling back…"

"Could be a trap," Roose mused, but conceded Locke's point. The Baratheon army likely had every manner of pox, and wildlings were best fighting in raids and bushwhacks. They were cut to pieces by Stannis' cavalry, and would be cut to pieces again by his. "Very well. Send in Steelshanks. Also have our infantry march on the double behind." Locke grinned a predatory leer and ordered forth the trumpeter.

And such the main line of over fifteen hundred Bolton cavalry surged forth with their flayed man banners fluttering like mad and throats open with a sadistic fury… a full five minutes behind that of the Karstarks - the infantry marching forward behind them. Plenty of time for Stannis' forces to successfully redeploy to the gently sloping hill a mere two hundred yards behind. And leaving their archers well out of range.

"By the fuckin' gods…" Such profanity graced the lips of every Freefolk watching the sight before them. Many far more obscene regarding the human anatomy than Karsi. "Are all southerners this fucking stupid?" Even as she leveled insults, she kept her bow ready all the same.

Jon shrugged, hoping his boiled leather blended in with the smoky pines as did the furs and mottled brown-greys of the wildlings. "All they see are his Grace's men, not us. Likely think most of you deserted." He smiled at Karsi's ice cold glare. A freefolk's word was his bond - not easily given, but as strong as steel when obtained. The Karstarks had just passed into the clearing and were being slowed by the mud… not enough to slow the charge from the larger Bolton host. Now. "Ready men!" Jon heard a similar command from Tormund across the open ground in the western Wolfswood. "Nock!"

Two thousand bows immediately found arrows lodged in their bowstrings, Wildling archers eager to showcase their skills that had kept the Hardhome palisade secure for so long. Within the main Baratheon line, The lines had formed up once more, grabbing staves off the ground - where they had been left in the night - and plunging them into the mud. Creating a nest of sharpened wooden pikes ready to block any cavalry charge…

Not that Stannis intended the Boltons or Karstarks to reach his line.

Gazing upon the onrushing cavalry, still an awesome sight despite the charge slowing in the mud, Jon felt a heat of anger coursing through him. These were the men that betrayed Robb. These were the men that abandoned him for his honor. These were the men that helped slaughter his brother and take his - their - home all for a kingslayer working for the Lannisters. An anger that swept across him.

But now Jon could do something about it.

"LOOSE!"

So focused on the gathered Baratheons - so focused on the massive giant that drew stares and gazes like a towering bonfire - neither the Karstark nor the Bolton cavalry noticed the bowmen waiting within the forested hills on the flanks. Such an error proved deadly… hells, disastrous. Staggered behind due to the premature Karstark charge, the first volley slammed fully into them. Blood spilled everywhere, barbed wildling arrows tearing through all unprotected flesh while the more powerful crossbow bolts from the main line punched through chainmail like it was parchment. The freefolk, not obeying the honors of war, deliberately targeted the horses. Armoured only on the head, the high-elevation long range shots ripping through their flesh sent the horses out of control. They panicked, terror sending them every which way as the charge just dissolved. Lord Karstark tried to rally his men for a last ditch attempt to hit Stannis' main line, only for the staves and swords to fell him in a bloody heap.

"LOOSE!"

"LOOSE!"

The Bolton cavalrymen received the same furor from Jon and the wildlings. Steelshanks Walton tried to keep his larger host together and peel them off to assault up the hills at the wildling archers so plaguing them, but it proved to be impossible. Seeing the dead Karstarks, seeing their own dead, horses bloodied and struggling in the churned mud... the mounted charge broke onto a full on rout. Wounded and panicked horses and riders galloped through the advancing infantry, scattering them and trampling them down in their headlong frenzy to escape the slaughter.

Only dogged determination by Locke and the supreme discipline of the Bolton hoplites kept them in formation, but the morale advantage deliberately shifted. "FORWARD!" Locke screamed, sending his infantry into the muddy charnel house, hooting cry answered by the bellow from the giant just as a new volley of arrows slammed into them.

Slow moving, armor thicker and shields wide, the hoplites fared better under the terrifying hail of arrow shot than their mounted counterparts. But it took its toll. Volley after volley fell among them, Bolton men huddling behind their shields and bending their heads so as to present their thick helmet plates towards where the arrows came from, protecting themselves as much as possible. This restricted their breathing and their vision in the increasingly fetid air, slowing them through the few hundred yards trudge through thick mud and sticky clay. Soon, knights and officers urged them through the broken bodies of fallen comrades or the thrashing forms of wounded horses.

As such, the infamous and terrifying Bolton shield wall was disorganized and worn down as it reached within charging distance of Stannis' forces. Hampered by mud and the sheer volume of arrows that had descended upon them from within the bowels of the seven hells. So much that the Baratheons had run out of shot. Fire slackening, Locke rallied his men. "Who holds the north!" A weak hoot shouted out, blood starting to rise as anger replaced fear. "WHO HOLDS THE NORTH!" The hoot grew louder, though nowhere near the volume as that before the advance began. "With me!" The line surged, one half aiming for the three divisions of the Baratheon line - Alekyne Florent on the left, Arstan Selmy on the right, and Stannis himself in the center. A quarter each charged the hills for the wildlings.

Stannis drew his sword, levelling it directly at the onrushing Bolton horde. "Bring me Winterfell!" The roar of Wun Wun did more to spur the men, charging valiantly forth through the snow.

Arrows depleted, Jon watched as the wildlings hefted their bone axes, knives, and short swords, tensed and licking their lips for the fight. Raising Longclaw, he howled into the air. Ghost joined him, and soon the entirety of the Freefolk let loose a wolf howl that resonated over the entire field. "WITH ME!" Himself at the van - Tormund Giantsbane doing the same across the flat ground - fifteen hundred wildlings erupted from their positions to engage the Boltons.

* * *

It was the sight of the century for the residents of Winterfell castle. Gathered atop the battlements… atop hills and through holes in the thatch roofs of Wintertown, all watched the gathering battle with rapt attention. Of differing levels of mood, as the guards within the ancient fortification were patrons of House Bolton while the smallfolk still held loyalty for House Stark. Of the noble Eddard and the dashing Robb, of the kind Sansa and wild Arya.

As the battle progressed, the whoops and leers of the guards and patrons began to sour into a creeping fear, while the dread in the smallfolk melted into a long-lost hope not seen since the Young Wolf rode south to his death.

In this, the two lone figures walked through the gates. Hoods drawn over their heads and horses piled with sacks of 'grain.' Normally astute guards didn't notice the hidden armor underneath their cloaks. The flashes of steel swords kept out of sight. Both had picked the perfect moment to enter - and waited for the second perfect moment to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: The battle was far too long, so I split it into two. Already, Jon and Stannis have the advantage, but those Bolton hoplites are fucking strong as shit. Still very much in the balance :D
> 
> I used a famous historical battle as a baseline for this one. Plaudits to anyone who can guess which one it is.
> 
> Ramsay's death was unique, I hope. Little shit didn't even get to participate in the battle, so I think the indignity of getting ripped apart by Theon was fitting.
> 
> BRuh4: Kinda a cliffy for you there. Don't worry, the next one is on the way pretty soon so you don't have to wait too long. Besides this was just a taste of the battle. More of it to come.
> 
> I'm not going to comment much on the Ramsay scene. I also don't want to any of you infer anything about it other than that's what it was. I wrote it and we were both okay with it. This is an explicit story now.
> 
> I thought the end of Ramsay was interesting. Theon doing the deed I think adds to his story more. He stood by and let it happen for so long, but then stepped in and saved Sansa. The throat tearing open I thought was badass.
> 
> Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed, more on the way.
> 
> The next chapter is ready to post. If we can get 25 comments, we'll update Monday :D
> 
> Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it.
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, bookmarks.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	8. Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: This one was probably far more fun to write than the previous one, given that now Jon gets involved directly in the fighting.
> 
> And kudos to all that guessed Agincourt. Thinking back to the original battle in which Stannis' force is annihilated, with a stronger army and better tactics, the ground around Winterfell and the strength of both armies make something like Agincourt plausible.
> 
> BRuh4: Considering this chapter was supposed to be attached to 7 we were able to update rather quickly. This was sort of an anomaly of sorts, so don't really expect updates this quick for the time being. In fact, it could take a while before 9 is ready to post. I hope this one is enough to tide you over for a bit.
> 
> 8 is a really special chapter. I for one adore it. It was a really fun one for us to put together.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark!

Time slowed. Slowing to a mere crawl… seconds became minutes, minutes became hours. The stink of blood and death already permeated the air of the Wolfswood. Sights of grizzly, mangled corpses of men and beast already littering the small stretch of open field of which House Bolton and House Baratheon fought over. So much death. So much carnage - but it was not over. Nothing was over, the unstoppable force of King Stannis Baratheon meeting the immovable object of Lord Roose Bolton. Stag charging against the sharp blades, with the pawn of thousands of men being the instrument.

In the middle of this was Jon Stark. At the van of half the wildling host of Stannis' army. Lord of Winterfell, but only one quarter of part to play. Joining Tormund Giantsbane, Arstan Selmy, and Alekyne Florent in leading their respective wings into the fray against the Bolton host. He was no coward. Jon didn't shy away from the coming slaughter he knew was imminent. What leader could inspire if he did not fight alongside his men. Jon did not know, so duty found him here.

Running as fast as he could, enemy footsoldiers ballooning in size as they closed the ever shrinking gap between the armies, Jon's mind picked out the oddest things. The shimmer of Ghost's fur in the wind, the faithful companion charging into battle alongside his master. A robin, leaping off an errant bush as it sensed danger coming. The rippling along the Valyrian steel blade he carried, as sharp as the day it was forged. A fleeting murmur in the sky… Jon could have sworn that the images of Eddard and Robb Stark - his father and brother - were looking down upon him that day.

Only a dozen yards separating the armies, Jon sent a silent prayer heavenwards. A single plea of determination. 'I will avenge you, father. Brother.' And Jon Stark bellowed a war cry that echoed across the plains as the opposing sides crashed together.

It started with a shudder, a rippling in the colliding armies as lighter-armored wildlings, northmen, and Stormlanders met the shields of the Bolton hoplites. Some were skewered by the long pikes of those pushing from the rear, but for the first moment of contact it was surreal. A stunned silence of first contact.

Then complete chaos.

Jon found himself in the midst of a veritable slaughterhouse. Drenched in blood - not his own - Longclaw slick with crimson liquid he did not remember spilling, the Lord of Winterfell tossed any thoughts to the side and moved through the battlefield. Blade darted out, stabbing through the weak chainmail of a Bolton man's back. The man gurgled, blood spraying from his mouth as he collapsed to the ground.

But the battle wouldn't let Jon rest from his one-on-one victory. The shrieking cry from behind him of an attacker echoed in his ear - sending him swiveling around with a grace not seen in most men. Valyrian steel met the half-rusted steel of a junior bannermen, but the son of the Dreadfort made up for it in pure ferocity. Lunging and hacking with hate and bloodlust buried in his weathered expression. But he faced the white wolf.

Deflecting, parrying, Jon batted aside the man's sword before swinging Longclaw to slice through his throat. Hot crimson drenched the direwolf sigil upon his chest armor. Spinning Longclaw in his hand, he searched for another target when he suddenly fell to the ground. Looking down, Jon found an arrow imbedded in his thigh.  _Fuck!_  He hadn't even felt it.

"WOLF FUCKER!" Two surviving Bolton horsemen were charging right for him, lances leveled… A snarl rang out as Ghost launched himself at one of them, red mist spraying as the massive jaws ripped through flesh and bone. The other stilled his horse long enough for an arrow to slam into his head.

A rough hand appeared in Jon's vision. "Get up, Crow," Karsi stated loudly. Looking down at the wound, Jon gripped and snapped the shaft in half like a twig. There would soon be pain, but Yigritte had given him three and he still stood. Karsi grinned. "That's the fuckin' spirit!" And the two descended back into the din.

Charging uphill, the Bolton men-at-arms lost their tight formation while scrambling up the mud and rocks. Using axes, scavenged swords, hammers, and bone knives, the howling wildlings on both flanks set upon the now disordered and wounded Bolton men-at-arms. Whatever formation remained could not cope with the thousands of unarmored Freefolk warriors, fresh, luxuriating in the almost gentle cold of the 'untrue north,' and unhindered by mud or armor. Within minutes, the flanks turned into a slaughterhouse as the dreaded man flayers of House Bolton finally met an enemy that could match them in savagery.

At the flatter land of the main frontline, the Bolton van had miraculously kept in decent order - if slackened and looser than hoped. Shield wall imposing and pikes lancing forward like scythes through whatever unarmored flesh were presented to them, they initially pushed back the Baratheons. Pushing them back from sheer determination. Filling them with resolve, stoking the pure anger at the men in front of them for the hail of shot for which they were forced to advance through.

They were men of House Bolton. Their blades were sharp.  _They held the north!_

It was not to be, dreams built through rage and wishful thinking dying against baratheon steel. Unlike the archers, the crossbowmen of the Stormlands had not depleted their shot, volleys of powerful, iron-tipped bolts raining on the onrushing hoplites. Punching through their shields. Piercing chainmail like it was nothing. Splattering men with their comrades' blood and brains right beside them. All the while the weak but rested men of House Baratheon, hardened veterans of many battles as much as their foes, slowly hacked and stabbed away.

The charge fizzled out. Rage dying into sheer exhaustion as the wave of fatigue slammed into the phalanx with a force stronger than any mounted charge. Slogging in heavy armour through the mud, the crush of their numbers meant the Bolton hoplites could scarcely lift their weapons. So preoccupied by the Baratheon men-at-arms, they hadn't noticed the more maneuverable mountain clans and wildlings hemming the tight formation on the flanks. The bears of House Mormont punching far out of their weight as they held off triple their number - the hoplites were unable to get up after being knocked to the ground. So tight was the mass they had been packed in.

Into the melee, the Bolton second line - ordered forth by Locke to win the day as he moved to stabilize the flanks - also joined the attack. They too were swallowed up, the Boltons at the back of their deep formation literally attempting to drive forward by sheer force of weight. This tightened the mass of men to the front, many trying to pull back in order to gain space to move. Any attempt to drive through the melee were met with furious steel, Stannis himself joining the fray as he fought alongside the men of House Mormont. Soon, scores of bodies were piled up on top of the corpses of the failed cavalry charge, many fighting over and on the bodies of those who had fallen before them. The cold air was banished by the pack of bodies, blood and excrement steaming and suffocating the men.

And then the blow of horns. The bellow of the massive giant. Eyes turned to the two hundred mounted cavalry of House Hornwood and House Mazin, lances leveled, charging alongside the towering leviathan of Wun Wun. Reserves. Fresh reserves not lost in the slaughterhouse of battle.

When the crossbowmen and archers let loose one final, stockpiled volley, the Bolton line finally fell apart.

Jon slammed his torso into a hoplite's shield. Deprived of the protection of the phalanx, the hoplite fell upon the ground from Jon's assault right upon the center of the flayed man. The man looked up, mouth dropping open in a panicked cry as Longclaw caved in the top of his skull. "Devan!" he cried out for his squire.

"My Lord!" Devan emerged, cut across his forehead and both eyes black - his sword was filthy with blood and brain.  _Good lad._

"Find Tormund! Tell him to close the fucking trap and let no fuckers escape!" Davos' son nodded, racing to find the ginger wildling in all this mess. Black locks matted to his forehead with sweat and grime, blood soaking his leathers and undertunic, Jon shouted aimlessly into the air as he hunted for other targets.

There were plenty. All around them, the battle among the flanks was growing in scope, whatever forced order collapsing as the retreating center of the Bolton line collapsed. Northern horsemen cut through the massive cluster of men like a scythe through wheat, lances breaking after multiple hits and swords drawn. Ghost's white fur was masked with crimson, Wun Wun littered with arrows as he used the flailing bodies of hapless Boltons as his personal flails against their comrades.

Blade slicing open the stomach of a wildling, Locke looked around at the chaos. "Come on you fucking cowards!" He grabbed at a fleeing hoplite, practically throwing him back into the fray. "Don't die unless you kill ten fucking stags!" Predatory gaze searching, his eyes widened as he found someone he had been personally searching for. "Ah… Bastard," Locke scoffed, taking a second to breath amongst the chaos around him.

Jon rocked back, hands tightening around Longclaw, "Locke."

"I'll kill you, Bastard," Locke grinned, drawing a hand-axe from his belt. "Perhaps Lord Bolton will give me the Dreadfort for presenting your head to him."

Scoffing, Jon twirled his blade, readying himself for a fight, "You won't have the chance." With that, he dashed forward putting himself on the offensive.

Steel clashed on steel, Locke's two handed fighting style faced with Jon's dexterous movements. "You think you're a lord," Locke taunted, using his bulk to shove Jon back. He had far more experience than the former brother of the Night's Watch, fought in far more battles and personal scuffles. "But you're not, just a lowly bastard." Jon may have been stronger, but Locke was cunning.

Well-placed shoves sent Jon's nimble feet upon corpses, only agility keeping him from toppling upon the ground. Frenzied down strikes were parried away, Jon letting himself fall on the snow and rolling out of harm's way. "You aspire to be a Lord, and such is your undoing, bastard." Jon leapt to his feet, only for Locke to kick a shower of mud at him, leaving him open for a coming axe swing - Jon only managed to dart back at the last minute. The axe sliced through his shoulder armor, leather ripping away to leave the skin bare. "I am what you should be, but you fight like a Lord." He brought both weapons down upon Jon, Longclaw only just blocking the blow before it decapitated him.

In the distance, Ghost raced to save his master, but charging hoplites distracted him. Blocked him. Cornered, the beast set to work upon his attackers with teeth and claw.

"You fight with honor." What normally would be a compliment left Locke like a sneer, sword and axe slowly pushing Longclaw down… rough iron axehead biting through the skin of his shoulder, forcing a whimper of pain out despite Jon's efforts. "There is no honor in war, bastard. Only victory… and death."

Jon suddenly felt the inferno return. Engulfing him, charging him with the fury of a thousand bonfires. Transforming him into a different man - a man determined to win at all costs.

Without hesitation he spat in Locke's face, the hot, sticky liquid forcing the man back with a grunt of annoyance. Annoyance followed with surprise, shortness of breath punching through Locke like a powerful hook to the stomach… only more than a fist had slammed into him. Savage eyes gazed into fiery gray, Jon's expression dark as he pushed the blade further into Locke's gut. "Winter comes for you, Locke," came the words, the last the loyal bannerman for House Bolton would hear before death took him in its grim embrace.

Drawing out Longclaw from Locke, Jon snarled as the lifeless husk fell. Eyes seeing nothing but red, he brought the blade up and brought it down again… and another time for good measure. Blood and brains splattering about as his heart was nearly exploding in his chest - red expanding in his vision till Jon could see nothing else…

Until a hard thump slammed into his shoulder. "Lord Crow!" Eyes a blazing fire, Jon turned with a savage growl. Sword swinging only to clang against an axe - a wilding axe. "Fuckin prick," Tormund shouted, staring Jon down… till he calmed down. "The fuckers are in retreat!"

"They're surrendering in droves!" Devan said, pride in his voice.

Blinking, shaking away his sudden bloodlust, Jon sucked in a breath of fetid air. Air contaminated with the stench of death, blood, and loosened bowels. He gulped it down like a drowning man nonetheless. "Fuck, the gates!" If they slammed the Winterfell gates shut, Roose could drown the army in its own wounded and disease until winter was over - after which they were all dead.

A loud bellow caught his attention. He turned to see Wun Wun, the massive giant peppered with arrows and two broken off speartips - much like Jon's own wound - but still going strong. Still killing as he tossed the broken body of a Bolton hoplite onto the ground. "Staark!" he stated gruffly, pointing in the near distance.

Jon found a cluster of northern cavalry. At least two dozen reforming as hundreds of remaining Boltons began to surrender. Motioning to Wun Wun, he found Larence Snow, the bastard head of House Hornwood and the commander of the mounted forces. The man bowed quickly. "My Lord…"

"No fucking time!" Jon scrambled quickly onto a riderless horse, Devan leaping onto another - that two were there being a miracle in and of itself. "To the gates!" Ghost, his jaws and fur stained with the same crimson that formed his eyes, bounded over to him. "If we don't take Winterfell, this will be for nothing!"

Larence Snow nodded, raising his blade into the air. "To Winterfell!" The northerners screamed wolf howls into the air as two dozen horses, over a hundred wildlings, a giant, a direwolf, and the Lord of Winterfell himself surged with one last gasp of fighting spirit towards the gates.

To claim their victory.

* * *

"Close the damn gate!" Roose Bolton screamed, what bannermen he had left within the castle scrambling to comply. "Man the battlements! Any of the fuckers get close, put arrows in them!" Without another word, he stormed into the keep. A sullen glower about him.

Such was warranted, for his entire army had been annihilated on the field. But the flayed man still controlled Winterfell. A consolation prize.

"Archers! To the battlements!" bellowed the master-at-arms of the castle, men scrambling forth.

Screams left the gatehouse, the greenest of men left within while the more experienced had sallied forth and died with the army. "Giant!"

"Kill it!" A loud slam echoed from the door. The master-at-arms drew his sword. "Don't let the fucker get…" His voice died with a gurgle as Valyrian Steel stabbed through his head.

"To arms!" yelled Brienne, engaging with another bannerman as Podrick led the smallfolk of Winterfell in uprising on the usurpers. Pitchforks, pickaxes, and hoes had no comparison to castle-forged steel and crossbows, but there were far more of the former than of the latter. Brienne led the battle within the courtyard while her squire advanced upon the gatehouse, inexperienced hand managing to emerge victorious against unprepared Bolton men.

With a snarl, the former Baratheon Kingsguard, decapitated an archer, bow dropped in the mud and axe drawn in an ultimately fruitless attempt to attack Brienne. Fearful, his comrade notched an arrow and aimed it at the attacker.

At point blank range, the arrow punched through Brienne's breastplate. The tough steel kept it from penetrating the bone and shattering it, but it still hurt like a bitch. Teeth gritting in a snarl, Brienne tore out the arrow with a loud, piercing cry of anger before raising Oathkeeper and charging back into the fray.

Jon watched as Wun Wun pounded his form against the already closed gate. The wood bending at the excessive force. The cries of panic of those inside evident even over the loudness of the battle ongoing. The giant's fist crashed through the oak, rearing back to repeat the process.

The bulk of the Baratheon forces gathered before the gate, rearing for entry. Bolton crossbowmen fired upon them from atop the walls. Forcing their targets to retreat back, or hide behind shields. Several caught arrows in the neck and torso, falling to the ground. Thankfully, some wildling archers fired back. Suppressive fire making the Boltons take cover.

Having retreated back, Jon, Devan, and Tormund hid near a rock, out of reach of the onslaught. Behind the crest of the hill rested the northern cavalry, most dismounted.

"We have to get through the fucking gate!" Tormund yelled.

"That's a bit obvious," Jon scoffed, resting on his knees, taking the chance for a breather. "The fuckers can wait us out for months if we don't. All this fighting will be for naught."

They turned behind, hearing the approach of a horse, then seeing Stannis atop it. Appearance not unlike theirs, easier to count the places on his skin and clothes not drenched in mud or blood, the Stag had gotten fully into the fray. He came to a halt before them, watching the carnage before him, "We can't stop now. I'll call for the battering ram."

"No," Jon shook his head. "We need to get in now. They can't be allowed to regroup."

"Then how in fucks name will we do that, Stark?" Stannis gritted his teeth.

"We can try another gate," Jon sighed. "There are others."

The argument would've continued if it weren't for Wun Wun bellowing in the air. Trying to call attention to himself. All eyes shooting in his direction.

The gate swung open, allowing the entry of Baratheons. Almost as if it had been opened for them, compounded by the fact of seeing a man on the walls waving to them. Beckoning them to come forth.

"What in seven hells?" Stannis frowned.

"Guess were in luck, Your Grace," Jon half-laughed, dumbfounded at the sight.

Stannis grumbled, "Best not second guess it." Raising his sword, he motioned for the line of Northmen, Wildlings, and his own bannermen behind him. "Take the castle!"

A chorus of battlecries rang out as the men surged forward, ready to face whatever trap or trick waited within the walls of Winterfell. Jon and the mounted King at the van, they covered the muddy ground rather quickly… only to be greeted by a rather unexpected sight. The Bolton bannermen within had been subdued, crossbows and swords turned against them as the various smallfolk watched intently. One young girl, recognizing Jon underneath the blood and grime, pointed. "It's him! The Lord of Winterfell!" The smallfolk cheered their new Lord… House Stark returned for the first time since the Greyjoys captured the great castle.

Walking from the group was a blonde woman, clad in plate armor and nursing a wound to her shonulder. "My Lord," she bowed slightly, though the respect soon grew… guarded. "Your Grace," the woman said almost reluctantly. "I am…"

"Brienne of Tarth," Stannis stated flatly, intrigued as to why she was here. "I know your father, Lord Selwyn… you were in my brother's Kingsguard. They said you killed him."

Brienne narrowed her eyes. Both she and Stannis knew the truth, and the look in his eyes told her that he knew that she knew exactly who did. But she wouldn't act on it… for now. "Lady Stark knew I didn't, which is why I swore myself to her service. She entrusted me with protecting her daughter Sansa, and thus I am here." She turned to Jon. "Lord Stark, Winterfell is yours."

Jon nodded. "Thank you, Lady Brienne." His gaze hardened. "Where is Roose Bolton?"

* * *

Everyone stood on, a crowd gathering in the courtyard, watching as the new Lord of Winterfell approached. Face covered in mud and blood, along with the rest of his body. Expression solemn even though the battle was won. Limping a bit after taking the arrow to his thigh, he wasn't looking forward to the maester pulling the pointy end out of his flesh. Longclaw gripped tightly in his right, the blade caked in the blood of any Bolton, Karstark, or anyone that stood in his way.

Now, Roose Bolton stood before him. One of the men responsible for the descent of his family. The man that stabbed his beloved brother in the heart. Thinking of it only made Jon angrier, wishing he had been there that day. But also knowing if he had he likely wouldn't be standing where he is. About to take vengeance.

He stopped before Roose, who was restrained by a pair of Baratheon bannermen. Another came from the left, toting a wooden block, setting it before the Bolton.

Roose looked around at all the people surrounding, then up to the sky, he exhaled, with a smirk, "Ah… It's time then?"

Jon nodded, "It is."

"You earned it at least," Roose said. "I imagine that was your plan. Drawing us out into the open… smart."

"Doesn't really matter who's plan it was… it did work though, didn't it?" Jon cocked his head to the side.

"I did all I did for my house," Roose sighed, looking to the sky again. "If I had to do over again, knowing this is where I end up…" He regarded Jon, "I'd still do it the same."

"I'm sure you would," Jon scowled, then spat on the ground. "Kingslayer."

"I'd do it again. Kill your brother." Roose inclined his chin. "Nothing brought me greater joy. All I regret was not having you killed at the same moment."

Flaring his nostrils, Jon dug Longclaw into the dirt, putting both hands on it. He asked Roose, "Do you have any last words?"

"Well… Let's see," Roose cleared his throat. "I fought, I lost, now it's time for me to rest. But you, you'll keep fighting these battles for a long time, Jon Snow... Our Blades are Sharp... A naked man holds few secrets, but a flayed man holds none."

Jon could only thing of his father as Roose was lowered to his knees, head forced to the stump. Ned Stark, the most honorable man he'd ever met, what would he say if he lived to this day? Would he be proud? Jon wasn't sure. All he wanted was to be half the man his father was. Live half the life he lived. Now, moments before taking the life of a man who'd deeply wronged his family, Jon thought he'd feel elated. Or at the very least satisfied. He felt neither of those things. Just… empty. Just another man he has to kill. All the men he had ended, he'd never liked any of it, never liked killing. Yet it was the only thing he's truly good at.

A part of him was scared of that fact.

 _'He who passes the judgment must swing the sword.'_  He remembered as he brought Longclaw up from the dirt, moving into position next to Roose. The man's eyes stayed locked on the mud just below his nose.

Taking a deep breath, Jon brought Longclaw above his head, and in a quick motion, the blade severed Roose's head from his shoulders. The Valyrian steel slashed through the flesh like a hot knife to butter. The skull bounced off the ground then came to rest, blood spewing like a fountain. The latest drops of blood to grace the bastard sword on that day.

Half expecting the crowd to break out in a cheer, Jon placed Longclaw back in it's sheath. His eyes lingered on Roose's corpse for a few more moments before he disappeared into the crowd behind him.

He shoved through the crowd, not regarding anyone, heading directly to the Godswood. Instinct propelling him for no particular reason. When he made it through the people, something caught his eye on the ramparts above him.

Red hair.

He gasped, nearly collapsing. His sister Sansa stood above him, her eyes locked with his. Seconds later, she took off in a brisk walk towards the downward stairs nearest her. Jon watched as she stepped onto the courtyard, not bothering wading through the thick mud. She had what looked like a bed sheet wrapped around her shoulders, for reasons unknown to Jon. Clearly the clothes under aren't modest.

Words failed Jon as she approached him. She looked worse for wear, her hair tangled and unkempt. He had heard she was here, but didn't know for sure. All the rumors of what was happening to her made him wish she wasn't. Though seeing her now, a bright grin came upon his face. His first glimpse of his long lost family since leaving Winterfell that bright summer's day long ago.

They closed the distance between them, arms thrown around each other in a tight embrace. Sansa started to weep onto his shoulder, reunited with the semblance of safety she's been long looking for. Her hands clenched against Jon's leathers, unable to contain her emotions.

Jon lifted her up, closing his eyes. Finally feeling he'd accomplished something worthwhile.

Saving his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Ah... I tasked myself with writing Roose's execution and the reunion of Jon and Sansa. I wanted both scenes to have very different feels then the canon version. Roose's death in the show is rather lackluster, it's not at all satisfying. With this, we knew it had to be Jon. I put it together in a way that felt fitting for Roose and allowing Jon to take justice for Robb's murder.
> 
> When Sansa comes to Jon at Castle Black, it's Jon that comes down to meet her. With our story I wanted it to be the opposite. For a number of reasons but one of which is I wanted to symbolize this version of Sansa. The canon version of her really left a bad taste in our mouths and she will be different here. Way it played out here sticks out in my mind and I'm proud of it. After all Jon's just done, he's just happy he's saved his sister. For Sansa, it's finally being able to let her guard down and finally feel somewhat safe. She's thankful to Jon and her actions will correspond. We won't let her be an idiot backstabber.
> 
> We appreciate all the comments, guys. It helps a lot. Keep 'em coming.
> 
> Longclaw: And there you have it. Hope y'all liked.
> 
> I highly doubt the people of Winterfell would have any loyalty for House Bolton. If there's a chance that they would take up arms, then they would probably take it.
> 
> Jon does not go unscathed in this battle. We've pretty much said in previous chapters our policy on that.
> 
> Stannis is now back in contention for the throne, but... there will soon be a third contender ;)
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, bookmarks.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	9. Not Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hi all. Due to other projects for both of us, the next few updates may take a bit longer to come out than the last ones. They'll also be slightly less exciting, but don't worry - epic stuff coming out. Epic stuff.
> 
> BRuh4: Thanks for the support guys, it really helps out.
> 
> Kind of a smaller one in terms of events but still a very important one. That being said there's also a pretty big introduction of a character y'all love.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark!

"To King Stannis! To Lord Stark! TO VICTORY!"

A loud chorus of cheers boomed from the courtyard of Winterfell Castle, the sounds of joy and merriment returning for the first time since heralding King Robert's visit so many years before. And now, with Summer giving way to the snows of late autumn - with peace having morphed into war - the conquering heroes and their civilian admirers exalted in the arrival of the old King's younger brother. And the son of their beloved Ned Stark along with him.

All was right in the world once more.

The feast was strung out far, from the great hall, through the grounds of the castle, and even to Wintertown. Stores opened and meat and bread loaded onto tables for the Baratheon liberators. Stormlanders, Northerners, and Wildings alike raised mugs of ale high as the Stark Direwolf banners returned to the places of honor on the castle battlements, Bolton banners tossed into the bonfire to resounding hollers of approval. Grateful maidens showed their appreciation for the victorious bannermen, many a whore plying their trades to men that hadn't seen a willing woman since Braavos - the apothecaries preparing vats of moon tea for the morn.

A few lucky souls tried for Wilding women, while far fewer left them with a smile rather than a black eye. Cheers rang out when Karsi, rather drunk on the remaining wildling ale left from Hardhome, dragged a quiet Podrick Payne into a storeroom for rather… obvious activities. Quiet, but not complaining.

Even King Stannis joined in the festivities, the Queen Selyse by his side while his Lord Hand Davos kept a close eye on the Princess Shireen - the young girl having a blast interacting with such interesting characters as the Lady Lyanna Mormont and Tormund Giantsbane. However, one person was absent. The Lord of Winterfell and guest of honor himself, Jon Stark.

Taking a spoonful of the piping hot concoction, Jon's mouth quivered in a grimace. "Dear gods." He was tempted to toss the bowl's contents into the hearth of the Lord's solar, letting the roaring fire purify it. "Even the Night's Watch had better cooks."

Even after all of the day's events, Sansa giggled at her brother's face like the innocent children they had been the last time they had quarters in the great castle of the north. "Roose and Ramsay had more important things to worry about than the cooks." Watching him down another bite, the grimace didn't disappear. "Oh, Jon, you probably had your share of rancid meals at Castle Black."

"Perhaps. Seal blubber north of the wall was pretty bad." They shared a chuckle, at that moment just two siblings enjoying being together after a long absence. "But Winterfell for me always involved the best of food." He smiled at the memories. "Remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?"

"With the peas and the onions? Gods, those were delicious." Just the thought brought joy back to Sansa, the joy of a life long gone… Joy soon turned to sadness. "We never should have left Winterfell. Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left? I want to scream at myself, 'Don't go, you idiot.'"

"How could we know? The threats? The evil that would be unleashed?" Jon hung his head. "Well, at least you would have stayed here had you known."

Sansa furrowed her brows. "What do you mean?"

"You had a place here. A family that loved you, a bright future as the cherished bride to some dashing Northern Lord. I…" His name may have changed, elevated from the muck into the pantheon of greatness by the mere decree of King Stannis, but Jon never forgot his true origins. The true source of his life upon this earth. The bastard son of Eddard Stark, a stain upon the great man's boundless honor. He wore it like armor, but at times the armor felt more like an iron maiden. "I was just the bastard of Winterfell. Hated by all, considered the disgrace of the family by Lady Stark. By…"

He was cut off by a hand resting on his. "Please, Jon. Stop." Sansa watched him with unshed tears in her eyes. Over the years, Sansa Stark learned never to cry, or to show emotion - but finally reunited with her family, she could finally let spill everything she had held in for so long. "You are my brother, and nothing can change that." There was a silence, the two eating their - albeit unappetizing - meals and drinking their warm ale by the fire. "I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could change everything…"

"I don't blame you, Sansa. We were children."

She gave him a sidelong look. "I was awful, just admit it."

Jon chuckled. "You were occasionally awful." He shrugged, looking away at the fire. "I'm sure I couldn't have been great fun. The quiet brother, always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played."

"Can you forgive me, Jon Stark?" It was the first time she allowed herself to say his new name, and frankly to her, Sansa felt it sounded rather perfect on the tongue. 'House Stark reborn.'

"There's nothing to forgive…"

"Forgive me." Insisting upon it.

"All right. All right, I forgive you." He grinned at her. "You've changed too. Like your mother, strong and decisive."

"So have you." Jon tried to deflect it, but Sansa insisted. "No Jon. You are a natural leader. Seized the opportunity King Stannis gave you, brought the Wildings south of the wall - gods, that will get you in the history books in and of itself - and taking Winterfell back from the damn Boltons?!" Hearing her anger starting to get the better of her, Sansa took a sip of the warm ale, allowing the heat down her throat to calm her. "Father would be proud of you. So proud of his trueborn son."

Hearing it from his family, from the sister he had loved but that had always been so cold to him… Jon felt the happiness, at least some of it, that he had always thought would come from being able to call himself Jon Stark. The son of Eddard Stark. He could feel tears of joy prickling his lids. "I do miss him." A thought came to mind, one that would likely cause his sister pain, but it had to be done. "If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me. But…"

Sansa's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Stannis won't be content with just the North. He wants the Iron Throne."

"For what he has done for us, I will gladly support his claim." Her conviction was of sharp steel. No longer a frightened girl, but a strong, determined lady of the North. "As will the northern houses."

"I'm going with him."

A sudden tension descended over the solar. Sansa felt her blood turn cold, a sudden fear creeping back to her. "You can't."

Grim determination formed on Jon's face. "I must. I swore it to his Grace that I would fight for him. Such was the price for avenging father and Robb."

Sansa stood, defiant. "Winterfell is our home! It's ours and Arya's, Bran's, and Rickon's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family! We have to fight for it, not have its Lord ride south only to die as Robb did!"

"I will not die like Robb did." Pain stabbed through him at the thought of his brother, never to be seen again. Body dumped into the offal pits of the Twins, never to have a proper internment in the crypts with the other great Starks of old. "I will come back to you, sister. Come back to our home."

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell… And there shall. You, Sansa." She blinked at him, disbelieving his words. "As long as I am absent, you are the Lady of Winterfell." He held up a hand as she tried to object. "No, it is already my decree. His Grace will not object, for I am sure he finds me in the highest esteem for this victory."

"You just got here, and you're already leaving?" Sansa sighed. She reached for his hand. "I don't want to be alone again."

"What'd you mean? Alone?" Jon smirked. "You're home."

"I've been home for months," Sansa avoided his gaze, lowering her voice. "But it didn't feel like it."

"I don't understand."

"Ramsay-"

Jon visibly stiffened, hearing that name. Hating that he wasn't able to shield his sister from the the man. He'd heard such horrible rumors. Praying that they weren't true, but seeing his sister now. He knew that they had some merit. He held his hands up, "I don't want to hear about him."

"He… he did unspeakable things to me." Sansa gulped, fighting the trembling that was threatening to overcome her. Looking at Jon, she felt calmness ghost over her.  _Jon won't let anyone hurt me again._  "Ramsay would have done more had Theon not killed him."

A mix of emotions crossed Jon's face at the memory of Theon Greyjoy - or whatever the beaten wraith called himself these days. Anger, gratitude, hate, familiarity… He settled on begrudging gratitude. "If it wasn't for what he did for you, I would have him killed for what he did… killing Bran and Rickon…"

"Those weren't Bran and Rickon." Wide eyes found Sansa's. "They were two smallfolk boys. Evil, I know, but our brothers could still be out there, alive." She sighed. "Theon is a lost soul, prone to good or evil from his desire to belong. I pity him, anger at him sometimes, but he's still family to me." Her gaze hardened. "But Ramsay was nothing but evil. He should have been fed to his own hounds." Icy hate swirled within her.

Jon felt hate swirl within him as well, but it was more a burning rage. "I would have killed him myself." Hands tightening around the arms of his chair, Jon gritted his teeth, "How did he even get a chance, Sansa? How did you get here?"

"Littlefinger."

"That swineherd? I must confess I don't know much about the man," Jon shrugged, calming down a bit.

"He…" Sansa blinked, mouth falling open, raking her brain for an accurate description of the man. To be honest, she couldn't fully reel in her feelings. The man had saved her from Cersei, only to give her away to a situation almost worse. Her time in King's Landing was horrible, but it wasn't even close to the horrors she'd endured in her own home. Littlefinger took her away only to hand her back over. She thought she knew what he wanted, after seeing what he did in the Vale. Tossing her aunt from the moon door, watching as she fell, no remorse. At first, she thought that he did it in defense of her. But now she knew his reasons were only for his own benefit. He wanted control of the Vale.

"Littlefinger… he's a man who will do whatever he feels necessary to attain what he wants."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know… I thought I did. I thought he cared for me, he wanted me. Told me as much, he had a lot of affection for my mother," Sansa explained. "But if that's true I don't know why he'd give me to the Boltons."

Jon sat back up, jaw tightening, "What do you mean?  _Gave you?_ "

"After I escaped King's Landing, we went to the Vale. Where he married Aunt Lysa. I'd thought he loved her, but really he only did it so he could gain control of the Vale itself. He pushed her through the moon door, then played it off like it was suicide." Sansa grimaced, staring into the fire, "And it worked because I helped him."

"You helped him?"

"I had to… if I hadn't I don't know what've happened to me. It's unfortunate that it was for his benefit. I only took his side, that was enough to convince the Lords of the Vale."

"The Vale…" Jon nodded slowly. He had a duty to Stannis, but also was determined to see his family survive after being so close to extinction. "Sansa, I need you to tell me everything you know about this man."

* * *

"We should get moving as quickly as possible," Stannis said, crossing his arms.

"Your Grace, if I may," The Lord of Winterfell tried. "Our forces won handly but that didn't mean we didn't have losses. Wouldn't be more prudent to take a few days to rest our men?"

"The Lannisters won't be expecting me. With Tywin dead in a puddle of his own shit, they don't have anyone worth a damn advising them, and my bastard 'nephew' is a weak little nobody. Marching now will catch them off guard."

Quiet during the entire meeting, Sansa took a chance and spoke up - Stannis wasn't Roose, and she had Jon beside her. "Pardon, your Grace, but would you rather have reinforcements?" No response followed, but Stannis nodded. Good advice was good advice, even coming from a young girl. "The northern houses are coming to pledge before Jon as their Liege Lord. We've already received a raven from Deepwood Motte, and I have it on good authority that the Manderlys are to arrive shortly."

"This is a mistake, your Grace." The Lady Selyse was more of a recluse for most of the time since Stannis had arrived at Castle Black, but with the capture of Winterfell she was beginning to make her presence known - and it was not to Jon's favor that she did so. "There is nothing here for you. I don't trust the Northerners - only three houses flocked their banners, and they barely had four hundred men among them."

Catching the looks given by Larance Hornwood - legitimized by the King for his valor on the battlefield - and Lyanna Mormont, Davos jumped in. "For that, we can chalk it up to being a southern foe with a wilding host, neither of which the northerners will like. Houses Mazin, Hornwood, and Mormont fought valiantly for us despite that."

"The Lord Hand is right," Sansa insisted. "In victory, you didn't seek to conquer the North, but instead reinstalled House Stark. That will go a long way towards pacifying the remaining Lords."

Pondering matters, Selyse frowned as Stannis nodded towards the two Starks. "So what is the advantage for me to wait?"

Politics not his strong suit, Jon had nevertheless learned at his King's side - he, Davos, and Sansa discussing strategies long before this meeting.  _'I'll be damned. I am forming factions now.'_  He cleared his throat, "You were an afterthought after you lost at the Mud Gate, your Grace." He quickly moved on from the King's scowl. "But with your victory here, you are back in contention for the throne. You need to look the part when we march south."

"Look the part?"

"You had twenty thousand bannermen at the Blackwater, your Grace." Like Jon, Davos was not one to mince words, though he knew when to speak and when not to.  _'A skill I will make sure the young Lord Stark will learn.'_  "Now, we have less than nine, many wounded. Half wildlings. You need more men to properly face the Lannisters and their Tyrell allies." The King snorted - such alliance had been his undoing at the Blackwater, Stormlands host overwhelmed by the combined armies of two Kingdoms.

Sansa spoke up once more. "With the North behind you, you will be able to challenge House Frey. They hold the Twins and are pledged to House Lannister. After defeating them, you will have further legitimacy to sway the Riverlands and Vale, of which I can be of assistance."

"And how would you be able to help me?"

Jon answered. "Your Grace, my sister has familial ties to both through her mother, my father's trueborn wife." He was emotionless, bastard armor returning - even with Eddard's name, Jon could never escape the circumstances of his birth. "The rightful Lord of Riverrun is her uncle, and the Lord of the Eyrie is her cousin. When we are in such a position, her advocacy will be needed greatly and could expand your army into an unsurpassed fighting force." Glancing at Ser Davos, the Onion Knight was impressed.

Selyse only glared, hoping that her husband didn't listen to the Northerners. Her hope was soon dashed. "Very well. We rest here till the northern banners pledge to me. But I will be prepared. Lord Selmy, send your command to Moat Cailin - I will not have the Lannisters or their Frey dogs threaten my position."

Arstan Selmy bowed as Jon, Sansa, and Davos exchanged relieved glances. Once again saving Stannis from his more… bullheaded impulses.

At that moment the door was thrown open, a Baratheon bannerman outside. "Your Grace, My Lord Stark, you have a visitor."

"Who is it?" Stannis gruffly asked.

"Lord Jon Umber, here to pay his respects to the new Lord of Winterfell."

Jon raised an eyebrow. A quick glance to his left and right found Davos sharing his look, and Sansa's eyes mirroring his beneath the expressionless mask. If Lord Umber had arrived quickly, then that meant he was most likely waiting close by the battle to see who would be victorious. One whose loyalty was for sale did not make Jon feel easy… but it wasn't as if he had a choice with forming an army. "I think we should see him now, your Grace." Not bothering to answer, Stannis just nodded and gestured for his men to bring the man in.

A large bear of a man, SmallJon Umber looked to be in his early thirties. Beard long and scraggly, he met the picture of a gregarious, tough cunt that Jon remembered his father to be.  _'Umbers - have to be tough to withstand the brunt of Wildling raids over the centuries.'_  That alone likely explained the suppressed sneer on the man's face, but looking in his eyes, Jon could see a respect of him. Not of Stannis, but of him.

Victory brought that out of people, especially the North. People respected a man that personally obtained victory. "Your… Grace." SmallJon bowed to Stannis. "My Lord, my Lady." His bow to Jon and Sansa was much lower than his to the King. Not subtle, but Northerners didn't much care for subtlety. "Congratulations on your victory over the oathbreakers and kingslayers. My father died at the Red Wedding, so all of House Umber is grateful for the justice you gave Lord Bolton."

Jon gave a tight smile, one he saw Sansa shared as well.  _'Oddly eloquent, though mostly bullshit.'_  He had spent enough time among Alliser Thorne and his dealings with Lord Commander Mormont, and among Stannis and his various lords and commanders, to smell out insincerity. The only sincere part of SmallJon's greeting was the anger at the Red Wedding.  _'Least we have that in common.'_

It was Sansa who answered, as polished as a southern manipulator. "We thank House Umber for its kind words. Now that Winterfell is back in House Stark's rightful hands, we hope that our longstanding alliance may be resumed."

"It would have been better had House Umber rallied behind their proper Lord prior to the battle." Wound bothering him greatly now that the rush of battle had run its course, Stannis was in no mood to be politic. "What stopped you?"

"You had wildings with you," SmallJon replied bluntly, casting a death glare at Tormund and Karsi. "Don't trust wildlings at all. Didn't know whether they'd betray you mid-battle and leave us fucked..."

"Ya southern cunts break your fuckin' oaths left and right." Tormund spat on the ground. "If we don't like ya, we stab ya in the fuckin' face. Not the back."

A terse silence following, it was broken by the barking laughter from the Lord of Last Hearth. "Can't argue with that." The laughter was eventually joined by all except Stannis, though the King managed to crack a smirk. "In any event," SmallJon continued as the laughs died down. "It's over. Stark won, Bolton lost. Now back to business, you cunts need us and I happen to be ready to give you my support and my bannermen. House Umber may be ruled by hulking assholes like myself, but we have our pride and our honor. Pledged to House Stark since the days of the Red Kings, and we don't shake from that."

Looking at the heavyset Lord, large and bulky just like his father GreatJon, Jon remained skeptical. "You could have made this same speech to the Boltons. What stopped you?"

"Roose Bolton was a cunt," SmallJon replied, not missing a beat. "Plus no matter how many wildlings I wanted to kill, couldn't do it with my lands being between you and this castle."

The hard gaze from the silent King never faltered. Analyzing, picking out the hidden meanings in the words of the bombastic northerners around him. "You do realize," Stannis said, finally. "Even if I assume your honesty, your rather… cavalier tone doesn't cause me to trust your loyalty towards myself or Lord Stark in the battles to come."

"Didn't expect you would," SmallJon shrugged. "That's why I brought a gift."

"A gift?"

The hulking Umber grinned. "Aye, to Lord Stark… and it appears to Lady Stark. As a token of my loyalty and good faith." Whistling, which caught all off guard - even the dour Stannis jumped slightly - in walked two bannermen of House Umber… and one young boy. No more than a year past his tenth name day by the looks of him. Altogether unassuming in the wilding furs draping his slight form.

He elicited nothing from Stannis other than a quizzically raised eyebrow. But to Jon and Sansa, both stood up, mouths agape in shock and wonder.

It was Rickon. Rickon Stark, their long lost youngest brother.

Rickon, blinking, was still in disbelief. Being back in his home for the first time since escaping Theon, but most of all at seeing his elder brother and sister once more. His memories of them had faded after such a long absence, but they returned in their full vivid glory at that moment. Having it been so long, he thought be might've not recognized them.

"Sansa…? Jon…?" He couldn't believe it. This was a dream, it had to be a dream.

But it wasn't. "Rickon." Jon half-laughed out of pure joy and utter disbelief. He took a step closer. Such was all that was needed for the young boy to run into the arms of his family.

* * *

The dark streets of Braavos never stopped bursting with activity, even well into the night. Several passersby, doing sorts of things, fucking, drinking, sights unseen where she's from. The way the Essosi speak is even a farcry from the utterance of her people. She darted between the droves going the opposite direction. A destination in mind, a place she visited just days ago. Scouted it all out, knowing the ins and outs, who came and went.

Imagine her surprise when she saw  _him_  that fateful day. That vile man. Twas honestly a sigh of relief at the appearance of him, knowing immediately what she must do.

She followed him that day. Waiting for an opportunity, a window, any possibility for her to strike. Feeling like the wolf she is, stalking her prey.

In the end, she tracked him to a brothel. Not that she's been in many of these places but this particular seemed… off. Her thoughts became a reality when she saw what exactly he was doing there. That only spurred her further forward to action. Burned the already boiling blood in her, any notion of turning back tossed away.

She stomped forward, no one batted an eye. Not even when she entered the whorehouse, assuming the reason being she had changed her attire to something more… dirty. Concealing a small shiv in her sleeve, as bad as she wanted to use her blade, carrying it would give her unwanted attention. She waded through the throngs of people, the courtesans laid on men's laps, whispering. It's a dark room, mostly quiet.

Eyeing a door near the back of the room, she pressed on. Knowing he was here and exactly where he was. Only for an arm to reach out and stop her dead in her tracks, before she knew it she was moved to stand before a man. An ugly man, the smell of alcohol lingering on his breath. Head shorn of hair, and thick beard, definitely from Braavos.

"Where are you going, little lady?" he said to her, holding on to her arms, tight.

"Release me," she growled, gritting her teeth. "Now."

"What if I don't wanna? What are you gonna do? Bite me?"

In response, she stomped her boot on his foot as hard she could. When that forced the man to let go she immediately ducked out of sight. All but sprinting to the door need to pass through. Thankfully, it opened when she pulled on the latch. Moving through, she heard voices.

 _His_  voice for one.

"Not her."

Creeping down the wall, she peered into the room before her. She saw him, Ser Meryn Trant, standing in front of three small girls, a leather whip in his grasp. One of the girls was taken away by a man, leaving the other two. He stalked them, examining his prey. A few seconds later, the whip flashed across one of the little girl's back, a mist of faint blood entered the air. The girl cried out, falling to her knees. Then Trant hit the other girl, causing a similar reaction as the first child.

Trant's barefoot hit the floor with some force, he grumbled, "What the fuck is this? These weaklings."

A strange woman came over, muttering apologizes to him. While another came and collected the girls, pulling them aside. After another few moments, all were gone but Trant. He sat on the edge of a bed on the far wall, running his hands over the whip. Only looking up when he sensed someone approaching. He looked up to see a girl about the same age as the others, maybe a bit older. Except this one didn't look scared, this one's face have resolve, and oddly familiar.

"That was quick," Meryn hummed. Then he rose, striding over, letting the whip fall loose, dragging across the floor. Her eyes followed him as he walked around her. "I can see I have my work cut out for me."

Just then, the girl leaped forward, though Trant was quick. The whip sliced through her shirt and through the skin on her belly, drawing blood. The man retreated back, chuckling, "What was that supposed to be?"

The girl lurched over, clutching her stomach, the wound was shallow but still hurt plenty. Falling to her knees, her head hung low.

Trant laughed, "That's what you get." He waltzed over closer, when he neared, dropping to a knee as well. His hand raced through her hair, taking a handful in his fist. He snapped her head up, "I'm gonna put you in her place."

Only he wouldn't get the chance. As soon as the girl raised her head she brought the shiv she'd be hiding out as well. The thin blade stuck in Meryn's chest before he could do anything about it.

"Ah!" he yelped, not able to stop the girl from jumping on him. Holding down as the blade jabbed into his eyes, blotting out all his sight. His screams were shut out when she shoved a piece of his shirt in his mouth. His hands covered his face as her weight lifted off him.

His attacker lingered over him, smiling to herself.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked him, not expecting an answer. But the man's response to try to crawl away, she buried her blade in his back three times to halt him. He rolled over in pain, muffled screams through the rag. Writhing, leaving a trail of crimson under him. She dropped down to his level, "You were the first person on my list, you know that? Syrio Forel? You remember him don't you?  _I decided you should die for that._  So here I am."

His hands reached blindly for her, probably trying to choke her. She half-laughed, swatting his hands away. Her retaliation being taking the cloth out his mouth, only grab his tongue. She pulled it as far as possible, then took her knife, sawing through it. Halfway through, Meryn was squealing as loud as he could. She pressed her knee against his windpipe to silence him. In a few moments, her jagged blade had severed his tongue. She held it up, watching as the blood filled his mouth, nothing brought her greater joy,  _"That's what you get."_

She stood, dropping his tongue on his chest. His hands hovered over it, having shut up by now, the reality of the situation settling in.

"You know if I had more time you would die much more painfully, and much, much slower. But seeing as those Lannisters you were with earlier are probably looking for by now… I better get to it," Then pulling him up by his hair, holding him just in front of her. "My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell. I want you to know that a  _Stark_  ends you. No one will remember you, killed by a little girl. Winter comes for you, Ser Meryn Trant."

Arya didn't just drag the knife across his neck. She stabbed the blade in the side, then with all her might slashed through the soft flesh. Tearing Meryn's throat wide open, pressurized blood streaming, his tried in vain to stop the bleeding. What sounds he could make her gurgled out.

His body fell to her side, soon becoming lifeless. Her eyes lingered on him for a while, basking in her achievement. Her clothes were filthy when she came in, only now buckets of blood mixed with the mud.

The knife dropped to the floor before she left. Unsurprisingly, no one looked at her twice as she escaped out into the Braavos streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Like a lot of the characters in this, Arya will be somewhat different than canon. She was kinda all over the place in season 8, Mary Sue-ish. Like virtually all of the season, I didn't like her very much. This is a darker version of her for sure. But y'all will see what she's got going on soon.
> 
> The next one is in the works, not sure when it will drop though.
> 
> Longclaw: Echoing what BRuh4 said about Arya, just wanted to add something. I didn't much like emotionless Arya, as she was portrayed as a perfect assassin that was able to do everything. That wasn't the Arya we fell in love with, being the character that fails and gets fucked up and all this different shit, but somehow manages to come out on top. That's what we're going for. Just as the proper Sansa took Cersei and Littlefinger's teachings and uses them to benefit her family, Arya will do the same with the Faceless Men teachings - won't be an easy ride, though.
> 
> Doubt the Umbers would touch Rickon until they knew what they would do with him. SmallJon seems like a fun guy, so we'll see more of him further in the story, along with another Northerner who will be quite close to Jon.
> 
> Dany is coming up next ;)
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, and bookmarks.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	10. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Sorry for the long wait, everybody. Both BRuh4 and I had other projects taking up our time and we wanted to make sure this update was perfect. Anyways, we're back!
> 
> Gonna be getting into a lot of action coming up, all culminating on Dany's arrival in Westeros. Basically the moment we've been planning since the beginning - we're both stoked about it, and I don't think y'all will be disappointed :D
> 
> Good news! I have just published a new story called A Terrible Resolve. Basically it's a Season 8 fix-it fic. Be sure to check it out, and I swear y'all will like it :)
> 
> BRuh4: Hey y'all, we're real sorry about the wait. We've both had a lot going on with other projects and stuffs. Also, and for me personally, it really hasn't been flowing recently, light case of writer's block. I'm A-okay now though.
> 
> This is a cool one. I like it a lot. It's got some rumblings of what you've all been wanting.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Bookmark, kudos, and comment!

Meereen had stayed calm for most of her reign, keeping it that wasn't difficult. The majority of the people loved her - she freed them, and they adored her for that. The former masters feared her, especially after she ordered their leaders crucified for their crimes against the hapless slaves. As a result, she didn't have to deal with many issues within the city.

That was until the Sons of the Harpy.

In taking control of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen, Daenerys Targaryen had done her damnedest to be rid of the slave masters that once controlled all three cities. Anything from burning them alive to beheading them. Most fell in line, simply wanting to live their lives and even coming to support her once the economy stabilized. But a stubborn minority just wouldn't bend the knee. They were an itch that wouldn't go away no matter how much it got scratched. A weed that couldn't be just torn up, it's already spread.

They funded a cult of sorts, an underground group of people - mostly young upstarts eager to cause trouble and the richest slave owners that wanted a return to the status quo - that tirelessly attacked her men and her people. Increasing patrols had only driven up the numbers of deaths of her Unsullied. They were not garrison or counterinsurgency troops.

Which just frustrated her to no end.

Her lieutenants couldn't find any trace of them. No matter how many houses they searched, anything that would assist their efforts. Leaving them helpless in knowing where they would attack next.

Often she'd wander out onto her terrace, lost in thought. Watching her children fly above her. Her dragons were little help with this issue, her impulses said to use them. But she didn't know where to attack, the Harpies hid themselves well in the city.

And the dreams. Gods, the dreams. To call them nightmares was… too simplistic. They varied in the minor details, but the main tenets were all the same. Stuck in a blinding snow, fighting either as herself or a mighty silver dragon. Battling harpies and lions and stags. Sometimes she'd be doing well on her own, others she'd be close to defeat. But always, the same white wolf from the first dream so long ago would appear. Teeth bared and tearing through all that opposed her. They would win, but the wolf would die, wound through his chest as she or her dragon form nestled him in her arms.

Every single dream. Every single night for weeks. It boggled her mind as to why, why this dream and why now?

Daenerys just felt frustrated. Frustrated and useless.

Footsteps behind her snapped her from her thoughts, she turned to see Ser Barristan's warm gaze.

"Ser Barristan," she acknowledged him.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he bowed. "Your Grace."

"You did no such thing."

"Tyrion Lannister is here, wishes to speak with you."

She hummed, perturbed that he would ask to meet with her. Instead of the other way around, "He's sober enough?"

"Well enough, Your Grace."

"What does he wish to speak of?"

"He didn't say."

The Queen only nodded in response, stepping by her sworn shield. He followed her to the solar, where the Imp sat, waiting. A curious gaze about his face, along with a chalice of wine amidst his grip. His fourth or fifth? He wasn't sure. Watching as the Daenerys glided into the room, her flowy white dress trailing her.

"Your Grace," Tyrion bowed his head.

"Lord Lannister," she replied, taking a seat across of the dwarf. Barristan lingered behind her, giving Tyrion a somewhat unimpressed gaze.

"Hmm… Guessing as I'm still alive, I assume you have a use for me," Tyrion remarked, swirling the wine around in his cup.

"Is that why you asked for me?"

"I suppose," he drawled out.

Daenerys glanced back to Barristan before speaking next, "What is it you think? My purpose for you?"

"I've thought a lot about it. Whilst spending my many hours in your… pyramid. One option would be to serve me up to my sister on a silver platter. The—"

"Your tiny nephew, you mean?" Daenerys smirked, cocking her head to the side.

Upturning his lip, Tyrion scoffed, "My nephew is innocent."

"Innocent? He sits upon a throne that is mine by right."

"He's harmless." Tyrion sat up, remembering his fondness for Tommen.

"Then perhaps taking the throne will be easier than I thought."

Tyrion glared at her, downing the rest of the wine. When he reached for the flagon on the table, Barristan stepped forward and grabbed it, stopping him. Saying, "You've had enough."

The Lannister made to retort but thought better of it.

"You said something earlier," Dany started. "Whether or not I'm worthy of your service. Have you decided?"

"Yes, well, Lord Varys brought me here, or wanted to… Your dear friend Jorah expedited the process," Tyrion said, grumbling. "I'd given up on life. But he told me that you were worth it, that you," he raised his finger. "Are what Westeros needs."

"Am I?"

"He thought so."

"What do you think?"

Tyrion cleared his throat, eyes shooting between the Queen and the ever-vigilant Ser Barristan the Bold. Noticing he should choose his words carefully, but also he felt he should be honest.

"I have heard rumors, all sorts of things. Some say you are a savior, a messiah from the god of the Red Priests. Others aren't so kind. Calling you some kind of demon, or an actual physical dragon. I heard someone say that you can transform - nevermind. Some say you are... terrible."

"You traveled across the world to meet someone terrible?"

"I wondered if you're the right kind of terrible," Tyrion replied.

"What sort is that?"

"The kind that ensures that those who follow you aren't."

Daenerys reached for her own cup and poured herself some wine. Tyrion raised his eyebrows, surprised. As she lifted it to her lips, she said, "A Queen isn't allowed to taste the delights?"

"I didn't say that."

She took a sip, "I reopened the fighting pits, much to my own chagrin, murder is entertainment, once again." Sighing, setting the cup aside.

"I believe that was wise," Tyrion nodded in reassurance. "I was also impressed to hear you agreed to marry someone you despise for the overall greater good of your people. Reminds me of my sister, marrying someone she loathed, but with complete opposite intentions. Eventually, she had him murdered."

"I don't foresee that happening."

Tyrion smirked, "Then maybe it's not entirely outrageous that Varys was right about you after all."

"Ah… Varys, the Usurper's spymaster? The man oversaw the plot to murder me."

"He did many things that he had to do to survive, other things he didn't have to do as well," Tyrion explained, biting his lip. "I'd wager to guess that the Spider was the sole reason you weren't smothered in your crib."

Daenerys stiffened, leaning forward, "Where do his loyalties lie? You trust a man like that?"

"Varys is loyal to the people, the common folk, the sort of people whose hearts you aim to win… and yes, I do trust him. Maybe the only person I do… well, aside from my brother."

"The man who betrayed and murdered my father?"

"The very same."

"I know who my father was… what he did, he earned his name. But perhaps I will have you killed after all," she said, unmoved as Ser Barristan stepped forward, hand on his sword.

To his credit, Tyrion only shrugged, "Couldn't stop you even if I wanted to. Kill me if you so wish… then my last few days will have been exciting. Seeing dragons… that only made it worth the trip."

Daenerys narrowed her gaze, examining the smaller man before her. Thoughts swirling through her head, this type of decision would normally merit discussion and further mediation. But somehow her conclusion came swift, and the choice even quicker. This Lannister may be useful yet, and if not, she can think of one particular solution to his potential insolence. Clearly, he has knowledge of the land she aims to claim. Westeros. A place she's never even set foot on. Honestly, she wouldn't know the first thing on how to take the throne. At least without using dragon fire, that's her immediate impulse of course. Yet, something tells her that wouldn't be conducive to a long-standing reign.

"I'm not going to kill you."

Barristan backs up at the words, but still keeping his eyes on Tyrion.

The dwarf swallowed hard, "No? Send me away?"

"No… You're going to advise me."

* * *

They had heard that the fighting in the North would begin soon. But they didn't know when or how long it would be before they received word. Well, a raven arrived.

Cersei was not happy.

"Those dull Northerners couldn't stop him?" she raged. "Father paid fucking Roose Bolton plenty to deal with Robb Stark and hold the North for us, and he can't even fucking do that." All highborn grace and manners were lost on Cersei as her fury roared through the small council chamber.

"We were told the appearance of Jon Stark, and his wildlings were the deciding factors," Qyburn announced.

"One man? And a pack of rapists and raiders?"

"A man who lived in the North his whole life," Jaime added. "I'd be willing to bet his knowledge of the land was paramount."

"Where is the King? He should be here," Kevan said, shaking his head.

As if on cue, King Tommen strutted through the double doors, entourage in tow. Looking elegant despite his somewhat cowardly countenance. Though still a force to be reckoned with, those seasoned knights trailing. Everyone rose at the sight of him, slowly bowing. He came to rest before the long table.

"Your Grace," they all said.

The King nodded, "Where are we on my uncle?" In the dark as to what the results of the battle were.

"Stannis took Winterfell… Your Grace," Kevan frowned.

"Oh, well," Tommen sighed. "What does that mean for us?"

"It is likely that Stannis will move South," Qyburn said, then bowed his head. "Your Grace."

Tommen hung his head, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table, laying his palms on the table. Feeling extremely unsettled at the news, him himself being just a child when Stannis attacked King's Landing. He didn't know what to think then, nothing's changed now. All eyes on him, he's supposed to be leader. The King. He hasn't done much of anything since his reign began. His boyish tendencies bubbled up, wanting to run away a cower like the child he is.

Kevan cleared his throat, sitting forward, "I think we need to call our banners. Get all our forces together, then move out to meet him. We don't want a battle outside our gates."

"How many men do we have?" Jaime asked the room.

"Around fifteen thousand among the Lannister forces," Kevan replied. "Any more and we risk leaving the Westerlands and the capitol unprotected."

"I can muster an additional ten thousand," Mace Tyrell added.

"With everyone here, I'd venture to guess that we'd have a force of twenty-five or so thousand for offensive operations."

"Sizeable," Jaime nodded, clenching his one fist. "We may stand a chance yet."

"How many will Stannis have?" Cersei wanted to know.

"We heard he had somewhere around nine thousand men at the Battle of Winterfell," Qyburn answered. "The Boltons were defeated rather soundly, it's unclear how many he lost in the battle. But his numbers will only grow as he marches onward with the northern houses sworn to him and Jon Stark. I'm sure the Riverlands and the Vale are in his sight now."

"Only that old cunt Walder Frey stands in his way?" Cersei scowled, clasping her hands on the table.

"I've also heard rumors that the Blackfish and the remaining Tully forces are moving towards his home, Riverrun," Qyburn added, with a furrowed brow. This announcement causing vocal groans throughout the room.

"I suppose he expects support from Stannis," Jaime surmised.

"Which he'll likely give," Kevan sighed. "Stannis will move on the Twins next. Walder won't be able to send anyone to accurately defend Riverrun, he'll need all his men at his own gates. The Blackfish can easily take it if he so wishes."

"When will all this happen?" Cersei asked.

"Likely in a fortnight or so," Qyburn answered, flexing his bony hands. "Stannis will regroup in Winterfell before departing with his full force."

"I don't expect Walder will stand much of a chance," Jaime shook his head.

All became silent, no ideas forthcoming, until young Tommen called out, head shooting up, "What if we send our own men? To help."

"They wouldn't make it in time, Your Grace," Kevan frowned. "Plus, our forces aren't even ready to move."

"Why not?"

"Because we haven't called for them."

Tommen looked surprised, "Perhaps we should, I expect fighting will begin soon."

Kevan cleared his throat, feeling somewhat embarrassed, he brushed his finger over his Hand of the King pin, as if to make sure it was still there. Then he said, "At once, Your Grace." He glared at Pycelle, "You'll call the banners."

The Grand Maester bowed, and slowly rose from his chair, "Immediately."

"When we're ready," Kevan began, laying his open palms on the table top. "Ser Jaime, you will ride out to meet Stannis, with the bulk of our Lannister forces."

"Where?" Jaime frowned, glancing to his sister.

"The Riverlands."

* * *

Boots crunching in the snow, Sansa came upon an eerily familiar sight. One that tugged at her memories, pulling at her heartstrings and placing upon her face a rare smile - a happiness that Ramsay and Joffrey had spent so long trying to banish completely from her.

During her childhood, whenever the Lord Eddard had been missing from the castle, one could find him in the Godswood. Beneath the great Weirwood tree polishing his Valyrian steel greatsword Ice. Even as it shined with the brilliance of the finest golden jewelry, the rag slid down the length of the blade. Inch by deadly inch, the Lord of Winterfell never at more peace than when he was there. And now, Sansa found her bastard brother - bastard no longer - in the same place at the base of the Weirwood tree, gently polishing the shorter blade of his Valyrian steel bastard sword, Longclaw.

Approaching, crossing her arms with a small smile upon her face, Sansa bit her lip to keep from laughing at the scene. "If you're trying to pose for father's statue in the crypts, you're too late."

As if only realizing she was there at that moment, Jon's head jerked up. Registering what she said and the smile on her face, he returned the smile. "I don't mimic father."

"I once heard mother tell me that if father brooded any harder than he did, his jaw would break… no, scratch that. You're worse than father." The two of them stared at each other for a straight face for mere seconds before succumbing to temptation - bursting out in merry laughter.

Laughter came sparingly for Jon… but with the hell Sansa had been to, the unfamiliar smile was inevitable. It was wonderful to see her be happy. To have the brother/sister moments he had never had in their childhood. The sound of snow kicking up every which way as a figure ran through them only widened his smile. He had just leaned Longclaw against the side of the Weirwood when Rickon threw his arms around him.

The young lad, grown like a weed from when they had last seen each other, looked up at his big brother. "You look like father."

"Sansa said the same thing, though not as bluntly," Jon quipped back. Their family may have been torn, ripped apart both figuratively and literally - but the pack had against all odds managed to survive. He kissed the crown of his youngest brother's head as the two figures of Lady Brienne and… Osha, he seemed to recall, arrived. Along with the two fur-covered forms of Ghost and Shaggydog. The latter sat next to Sansa, who softly stroked his fur, while his now bigger brother sidled up to Jon and started to lick his hand. "Alright Ghost, I know you're excited." The big lug had turned into a scampering puppy again now that he had a playmate again, dashing off towards the godswood, Shaggy following with twin quick barks.

"You summoned me, my Lord. My Lady?" Brienne stated after bowing, formal and respectful as ever - though the ghost of a grin crossed her lips at the antics of the two direwolves.

"Wonder what King Crow wants," Osha grumbled. The free folk woman, despite being in the service of House Stark for years, had quickly picked up the jargon of her fellow wildlings. Including a near reverence for Jon, though masked out of pride.

Clearing his throat, Jon's expression hardened as the family moment transitioned back into the business of the day. "This conversation doesn't leave this place, understood?" Sansa nodded almost immediately, the same strength of her mother present in her. Brienne, having sworn her sword to both Sansa and Jon the day after the battle, bowed in agreement. Osha shrugged, but Jon had been with the wildlings enough to know that was the best he'd get. A sad frown crossed Rickon's face, Jon reminding him that his innocence was dead and buried, but he nodded as well. "Good. Stannis will want to march south as soon as possible. Sansa and I have joined with Ser Davos to convince him to hold off for as long as possible, but I'll eventually have to leave Winterfell for the southern battlefields."

"No!" Rickon clutched onto Jon's arm frantically. "Don't go, Jon. We just got you back."

"I have to, brother." He hated to leave his home, but honor demanded it. "I swore to King Stannis that I would fight to install him on the throne in exchange for his help taking Winterfell back, and he complied. I must comply."

"Jon…" Sansa's lips were pursed in a tight line. She felt the same as Rickon, but was more circumspect about it.  _We are far closer than we were, but I hate how it came about._  "Rickon is right. You just got back, just took your mantle as Lord. Father rode south and died, Robb rode south and died…"

"I will not make their mistakes, Sansa. Nor will I fall into the same traps."

Sansa fought tears, thinking of how she had seen Ned die and of the nature Robb and her mother died. "I'm not suggesting that you would, but no Stark that goes south has ever had good luck. What message are you sending to the people of the North if you go south immediately after you liberated them?"

This was a good point. "Father intended to stay in the south. Robb was fighting the entire south. I will not do that, instead fighting alongside King Stannis as father fought alongside Robert, then come home. All those in the North understand. As long as the Lannisters control the Iron Throne, we are always under the threat of destruction. The Lannisters took Father and Robb from us, they will not take me."

"Please, Jon. Don't go!" Rickon was shaking, close to crying. "Father left, you left, Robb and mother left… I nearly died with Bran…"

Jon pulled his brother in his arms, gently patting his back. "You'll be safe here, Rickon. I won't let anyone hurt my family ever again. You'll have the Free Folk spearwives protecting you, and they are as loyal to me as they were to Mance." He hoped that the further south they went, the less Stannis would be inclined to care. "You also have the Lady Brienne."

Catching Brienne's glance, Sansa waited until Rickon quieted down. "Jon, I want Brienne to ride with you." He sent her a questioning look. "I'm sure your wildling spearwives are enough to protect me, while you need someone I trust to watch your back from the Lannisters."

Sighing, Jon nodded. "Lady Brienne, I would be honored to serve by your side if you so wish it."

"Of course, my Lord. I could think of nothing more honorable that fighting beside the great Ned Stark's son."

Ruffling Rickon's hair, Jon turned to the wildling woman. "Osha, you protected and looked after both my brothers. I have a task for you."

"Ask away, King Crow."

"The Boltons are dead, but there may still be threats. Bran was nearly killed by a Lannister assassin, after all, so I need you to keep your eyes and ears open. Head off all potential threats to my family that could transpire within Winterfell."

"Don't worry, King Crow. I'll keep the little lad and his sister alive."

"While I'm gone, Sansa. You are the Lady of Winterfell. Rickon, you are my designated heir should anything happen to me… not that it will. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Our pack will survive." For the first time since the meeting began, all present smiled.

Racing through the keep, Jon made for the great hall. Stannis was expecting him, but the meeting in the Godwood ran long.

"Lord Stark!"

Jon stilled, turning… and bowing. "Greetings princess. Forgive me, but I didn't see you."

Smiling, Shireen curtseyed at the Lord of Winterfell. "No need for apologies, Lord Stark. I tend to wander. Drives my mother mad." She chuckled. "I seem to be lost, so it is good that I ran into you."

"Fortune smiles on House Baratheon," Jon said, unable to not be happy around the young princess. No wonder Davos thought of her as close to a daughter to him. "May I be of service?"

"I was wondering where the castle library is."

Extending a hand, Jon laughed as she took it. "It's just this way."

"Thank you, Lord Stark." The two began to walk down the corridor. "So is it true that Bran the Builder created this castle after creating the wall…?"

* * *

A Baratheon bannerman opening the door to the great hall - a whispered "mi'Lord" in near reverence - Jon wandered in to find the gathered Lords and their entourages all seated on the tables. Only a year before, he would have shrunk back, pretending not to exist. Now, despite the bastard armor once wrapped around him, he strode in confidently. As his father once did through this very hall.

Lords of Winterfell.

"You're late, Lord Stark," Stannis said gruffly from the head table. "We were just about to begin without you."

He bowed, stepping atop the dias. "Apologies, your Grace. I was answering a question for the Princess Shireen." Hearing the name of his daughter, Stannis' expression softened… as much as he could soften, that is. "Must have taken more time than I thought."

"That sounds like the Princess, your Grace. Always asking questions," commented Davos, sounding himself a proud father.

Beside the King, on the right while Davos sat to the left - with one empty space for Jon, befitting his status as Lord of Winterfell - the Queen scowled. "I'll have to have a talk with her."

"It was no need, your Grace," Jon smiled. "The princess is a delight. I was happy to answer her questions." While Davos beamed and Stannis offered a small smile, the Queen's scowl deepened. He was not going to win any plaudits from her.

"It's fine, my dear," the King told his wife. Stannis then motioned for Jon to take a seat. There were few things that Stannis had a soft spot for - Shireen was one of them. As such, Jon took his seat between his King and Davos, the Onion Knight giving him a warm smile. He had already liked Jon from the beginning, and being kind to the Princess only further convinced him of the former bastard's worth. "Alright," Stannis stated. "Let us begin."

Davos stood, eying each Lord in the room with a look of respect - inside, such respect was largely inflated. He vastly considered those such as Lyanna Mormont or Larence Hornwood to be far more worthy, as they had fought for Jon and Stannis rather than wait like cowards, seeing who would come on top. But he was wily enough to keep it to himself. "My Lords and Ladies, welcome to this assemblage. It heartens me to find the great houses of the North once again united under…"

Famously blunt, the Northerners didn't waste time in beginning their bickering. "For fucks sake, why are we sharing bread and mead with Wildlings!" proclaimed Lord Glover, old voice still rising to anger.

"We didn't invade," Tormund stated back, oddly restrained. As were Karsi and the other Free Folk clan leaders resting along the far wall by the windows. "We were invited."

"Not by me," snorted Glover, smatterings of approval among the other lords.

Davos did his best to calm them down. "Please, my Lords. Bickering doesn't solve anything. Not with the threat of the Lannisters breathin' down our necks."

Lord Wyman Manderly laughed. "I was pretty sure the Lannisters weren't botherin us before yer southern King killed off Roose Bolton. No, I'm completely sure."

"Yeah, fat Mermaid, the only cunt botherin' you was Roose Bolton." While he still hated the wildlings, when SmallJon Umber pledged, he went all the way. "Need I remind you what happened to the last Lord Cerywn?" Eyes drifted to Cley Cerwyn, who held his head in his hands. When his father refused to pay taxes to Roose, the Lord Bolton had Ramsay flay him alive. It was… quite sobering to know what the Lords were saved from. "Say what you want about Jon Stark, but he has his daddy's honor."

Eyes quickly glancing at Stannis, Jon found the King trying to hide his glower - he was succeeding, only someone who was around him for any long period of time could tell his true thoughts. But both he and Davos had advised the King to let them do the talking, given how distrustful the north had for Southern Kings. "My Lords." Jon stood, looking every inch Ned Stark's son. "We know our true friends on the battlefield. The Free Folk, the men of the Stormlands, the northerners, we all fought together and won together." He gestured to Stannis. "His Grace could have conquered us alone, but he didn't. He could have just allied with the Boltons, but he didn't, respecting the North to bring the Stark direwolf back to Winterfell."

"And why should we trust you, Jon Snow?" Robett Glover's eyes narrowed, insult testing him. "We trusted Ned Stark going south, and he lost his head and gave us a war. We trusted Robb Stark going south, and he lost his head and many of our sons at the Red Wedding. And I take it you would wish us to follow Stannis Baratheon south. What would you cause us to lose?"

Jon's hands tightened into fists, feeling the same surge of anger as before. Not for himself - cheap insults mattered not. But the wolf protects the pack, and Lord Glover brought the raised fist of his sigil on the memory of his father and brother. This, Jon couldn't stand.

But meeting eyes by chance with his sister and brother, the two having entered behind him and sitting with the Lady Brienne and Maester Wolkan, they calmed him. Tempered the inner fire once roaring to spew forth. "Lord Glover," Jon breathed, restraining his anger. "I seek no throne. I seek no glory. What I seek only is that the north prosper and our honor restored. Roose Bolton cared not for this, as shown by his swearing to the Lannister bastard." He gestured to the King. "Stannis Baratheon is an honorable man, as loyal to House Stark as was his older brother, King Robert. We fight for him, and he will reward the north.

"What does he offer us?" asked Wyman Manderly, less hostile than inquisitive. Progress.

It was Davos that now spoke. "Full autonomy, and your share of the spoils to rebuild your lands from what the Red Wedding wrought." Davos looked to his King, uneasy for some reason. Stannis nodded, causing the Onion Knight to sigh softly - only Jon could hear. "And he is willing to betroth his daughter, the Princess Shireen, to a northern boy to cement the alliance once she comes of age."

This was news to Jon, as was the fact that the northern boy was likely to be him - if Stannis willed it of course. Thoughts of such bothered him, supposedly of Ygritte… but when he thought about it further, Yigritte wasn't what put him off of the idea. It was all a jumble, but the shouts of the Lady Lyanna Mormont drew him out of it.

"Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly. You refused the call. And you, you were pledged to House Stark, Lord Glover. You refused the call." She shook her head, disgusted. "House Baratheon was good to the north. They honored their friendship with Ned Stark, and our land had peace and plenty." The she-Bear pointed to Jon. "Stannis could have allied with the Boltons, but he didn't. He honored his friendship with Ned Stark even though our Lord is beyond the grave, and bled on the battlefield to restore our honor. House Mormont remembers."

"I don't care if he was born a bastard," Lyanna continued. "Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He will avenge us, and bring us glory, and if Jon Stark feels that Stannis Baratheon is the man to be our King, then I shall trust his judgment. A judgment proved right upon the field of battle." She drew her sword, nearly as big as she. "I pledge myself to Stannis Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell." And upon the floor, she knelt.

House Mormont was not the largest house in the North - frankly, it was the weakest in terms of numbers and holdings - but its reputation was strong. Having never submitted to any by conquest. For the She-Bear to bend the knee was telling in and of itself, and it proved the final push for the other lords to do what their advisors had suggested for weeks.

"House Manderly pledges to Stannis Baratheon and Jon Stark." Fat Wyman Manderly bent the knee.

"House Cerwyn pledges to Stannis Baratheon and Jon Stark." Young Cley Cerwyn bent the knee.

"House Umber pledges to Stannis Baratheon and Jon Stark." Burly SmallJon Umber bent the knee.

"House Karstark pledges to Stannis Baratheon and Jon Stark." Demure Alys Karstark, young and grateful to be allowed to hold her title after her father's betrayal, bent the knee.

"House Reed pledges to Stannis Baratheon and Jon Stark." Weary Howland Reed, eyes sparkling as they gazed upon the now grown Jon, bent the knee.

"House Glover pledges to Stannis Baratheon and Jon Stark." Reluctant Robett Glover bent the knee.

And so it continued, over and over again until each man, woman, and child in the great hall was on their knees, pledging to their new King and new Liege Lord. A pleased smile passed over Stannis' lips, hauling himself to his feet - not a flicker of a grimace graced his expression. The pain must have subsided that day. "By the Old Gods and the New, none that follow me shall know dishonor nor defeat. I, Stannis of House Baratheon, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, swear my protection and loyalty to the Kingdom of the North."

Jon clasped his fist over his chest, an offer of honor to the lords now sworn to him. "I, Jon of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, swear my loyalty and fealty to those that swear before me. To have bread and mead on my table. To fight as a son of the North, sworn sword of the one true king." Clasping the King's hand, he raised it in a show of unity and fealty. "Long may King Stannis reign."

"Long may he reign!"

And soon it was over. The Lords returning to a boisterous familiarity as the feast was served. "Lord Stark." Before he could dig into the meaty pie presented before him, Jon looked up to see the squat form of Howland Reed approaching him. The Lord of Greywater Watch had been silent through the meeting, allowing the others to speak and bicker. It actually heartened Jon, the man clearly having the most honor out of all of them. "You carry yourself like your father. He would be proud of you."

Jon blinked, a wistful smile forming on his face upon thinking of his father, Ned Stark. "I only hope so, Lord Howland. It is hard, living up to the great Eddard Stark's footsteps."

"A great man he was. I was honored to ride with him south to Dorne… to find his sister Lyanna." The Crannogman's eyes glossed over, as if lost in a rather deep memory of the past. "I hope it isn't too forward, my Lord, but I would like to offer you my services. Not riding with your brother, the Young Wolf, filled me with shame. Allow me to ride alongside Ned Stark's eldest son as I did with him, as we journey south into the jaws of death."

While aged, lines of grey marring the mousy brown hair of the Crannogman Lord, Jon could tell Reed had something to say. Yet he stopped himself.

Stannis spoke up before Jon could, "How many men?"

Reed cleared his throat. "Four hundred, your Grace. Not the best in a stand up fight, but no better bushwhackers and raiders."

"Hmmmm…" Stannis rubbed his beard in thought. "Very good. I could use raiders, given how Ramsay Bolton nearly crippled my army. You shall ride with Lord Stark."

Apparently Jon's mind had been made up for him - though he had been about to accept anyway. "I shall be honored to ride with you, Lord Reed."

"The honor is mine… Lord Stark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: The Dany scene at the beginning is pretty similar to the one they had in canon, but with the added bonus of Barristan. Whom you may have been surprised to see, we decided he should breathe a little bit longer. We haven't seen much of Dany, and we've talked at length about the reasoning behind it. You'll be glad to know that we appearances will only go up from here.
> 
> Longclaw: Howland Reed will have a big role to play coming up - with Ned dead, he's basically the last living link to Jon's real identity and he knows it. So he has every incentive to keep close to Jon. Given he's a good warrior, it works well.
> 
> Be sure to check out my new fic A Terrible Resolve! Plus our already existing fics Empire of Ice and Fire, To Catch a Dream, and My End is Your Beginning.
> 
> Leave your comments, kudos, and bookmarks.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	11. The Pack Survives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hey everyone. Sorry for the delay, but we wanted to make it all perfect.
> 
> Like the last few, this chapter concerns mostly interpersonal matters and politics, but we're leading up to the next big bout of action.
> 
> BRuh4: Another kinda in-the-middle chapter, the calm before the storm for sure. There's been a tiny break in the action here, but it's getting ready to kick back up in a bit here. It's gonna be awesome.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

Kneeling, her plate armor clinking on the stone floor of the audience hall, Brienne lowered her head in front of the three Starks. "I offer my services to you, Jon of House Stark, Sansa of House Stark, and Rickon of House Stark. I will shield your back, keep your counsel, and give my life to you if you need it of me. I, Brienne of House Tarth, swear myself to House Stark by the old gods and the new. Until the end of my days or until you release me from this pledge."

Sharing a glance with Sansa, who seemed placid, and a very excited Rickon, Jon drew Longclaw from its scabbard. He stepped down from the dias, gently resting the tip of the cold steel upon Brienne's shoulderplate. He did not have the power to knight her, but the gesture still possessed a symbolic power. "And I, Lord Jon of House Stark, on behalf of my honor and the honor of my sister and brother do vow this moment that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. Arise, Lady Brienne."

The last promise, it was something that Brienne knew was rare in the world. Even Renly, the kindest man she had yet known, could be arrogant and prideful - demanding the worst from his sworn swords. Jon Stark, any of the Starks, she could trust them to keep true to their promises. Slowly she rose. "I will journey to the ends of the earth with you Lord Stark. Or either of you, Lord and Lady Stark."

"We appreciate such, lady Brienne," Sansa said warmly. If only she had joined her at the crossroads inn long ago… but that was the past, this was the future. "Protect him for me."

"With my life." Bowing, Brienne turned and left the chamber, purpose surging within her.

Now it was just the three remaining Starks, all that was left of their house. "Perhaps she should stay here, with you," Jon stated first. "Protect you from whatever comes out."

"I think the spearwives will be enough," Sansa chuckled. She had seen the wilding female warriors train, and they impressed her far more than even Joffrey's Kingsguard - men like Meryn Trant and Ilyn Payne would get slaughtered by them. "That and our household guard will be fine. I'd much rather have Brienne protecting you on the battlefield. You already have Howland Reed. The great Lady Knight and Podrick should round it out."

"Podrick can use the experience," Jon smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned back in the chair. "So, what's next?" He wondered how his father could stand the boredom of the rote duties of a Lord.

Sansa glanced at Jon, eyes gesturing to Rickon. "We're bringing Theon for his mercy hearing." Silence settled over the audience hall, Jon wincing and joining his sister in worrying for their little brother. Rickon had seen his first atrocities when Theon took over Winterfell during the War of the Five Kings, and the elder Starks felt that him seeing Theon again could cause the boy to relapse to how sullen and fearful he had been upon arriving back in Winterfell.

It was Jon that figured out how to breach the subject. "Rickon, perhaps SmallJon or Tormund are up to help you work on your swordsmanship?" The two burly warriors hated each other - supposedly hated each other, always sparring. Made quite a sight for the Stormlanders and other Northerners.

"Yeah." Rickon nodded, eager not to be in the same Room as Theon. "See you at dinner, Jon." he wrapped his arms around his older brother. "Sansa." He kissed his sister's cheek before darting out of the side door, new sword clinking on his hip. A gift from the King for the boy on his twelfth nameday the month before.

Jon cleared his throat. "Bring in Theon Greyjoy." The bannermen flung open the doors, in walking the Ironborn that started the whole mess. He was cleaner, dressed in northern letters and having his hair and beard cropped neatly. A bath left him without the grime Ramsay loved to parade him in, the Ironborn prince no longer spelling of dog shit. But in his eyes, he still remained a fight between the Theon loyal to House Stark and Reek, the cockless plaything of the Bolton bastard. It wasn't long after the doors closed - the Stark bannermen knowing their Lord could take care of himself - that his eyes met Jon's.

The two stared at each other, room growing as cold as the wolfswood despite the fire crackling in the hearth. Jon's eyes glared icy daggers at Theon, while the former ward of Winterfell kept his eyes on the ground, not willing to meet Jon's gaze. Barely able to meet Sansa's gaze. Normally a sign of deception, but such wasn't what Jon could see.

Shame. Well-deserved shame, a complete contrast with the brash and cocky cunt Jon had known from his former life. "Well?" The voice of the Lord of Winterfell broke the silence. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Theon?"

Hearing his proper name, said with all the warmth of the wall from the man Theon had so abused and insulted during their childhood, made Theon wince. He looked up, pain in his eyes. "I…" He looked to Sansa, her expression flat but with a sort of familiarity… a flicker of compassion. Of a familial bond that his own father shared not with him. "I am not proud of what I did. I… betrayed my family. Robb, he trusted me… and I failed him."

"You did," Sansa stated. "You betrayed my other brothers as well, Theon."

Remorse was written over his face, one Jon could tell was genuine. "I did not kill Bran and Rickon." Such was obvious, though Theon seemed to be just stating it, not an attempt to weasel out of his punishment. "Those bodies weren't them."

"They were somebody's children," Jon replied, eyes narrowing. "A mother and father deprived of their beloved children out of a fucking dick-measuring contest between you and your men… who ended up betraying you anyway." The former heir to the Iron Islands turned away again - what could one say to that. While the truth, it cut deeply. Jon leaned forward, hands clasped together. "I should kill you myself for that, but it appears Ramsay Snow gave you a far worse punishment than death by my sword would do."

 _'Ramsay…'_  Theon flinched, shaking at the mere mention of the name. Though the sadistic monster was dead - though Theon had killed him personally - he still haunted him. Haunted his very soul. "Theon…" He looked up once more to see Sansa, eyes softened. "Ramsay is dead. He's gone."

Even Jon had calmed, edge in his voice slightly lessened. A tiny glimpse of apology on his expression - he may have inherited Ned Stark's tendency to coldness, but the Bolton cruelty was alien to him. Jon was not a sadist. Sighing, the Lord of Winterfell leaned back once more. "You still betrayed Robb, Theon. But you saved Sansa. The brutalization she received… Ramsay could have killed her, but you stopped him. Stopped him from leading their armies in the field. If weren't for your past actions, I would have recommended to King Stannis to support you in claiming the Salt Throne from your father."

"But you won't." It wasn't even a question.

"My debt to you for that morning does not absolve you from your crimes, Theon. For your betrayal." Sansa was no longer the girl of before, adept at giggling about knights and dresses. She had hardened, grown into a cunning woman. They had all grown from their childhood. "But the past is the past, and we must judge for the future."

Standing from his seat, Jon rounded the Lord's table and proceeded down the raised steps. He was never a large man, but he seemed to tower over Theon. "You… you are still family, Theon. What you did for Sansa…" A fist clenched, but then released. "Proves you are still a Stark. A Greyjoy, and a Stark."

"Eddard was far more a father to you that that shit Balon Greyjoy," Sansa added. Theon could not disagree, only fighting with his learned instincts not to cower in the face of the two Starks. "What do you want us to do with you, Theon? As our family, we extend you that choice. If it is equitable, we will grant it."

Jaw dropping ever so slightly, Theon composed himself. "You'd just… let me go?"

"If you wish to go." Jon relaxed his expression. "If you wish to stay, we will accommodate you. But if you wish to go, I won't stop you."

At first, Theon wanted to say nothing. Feeling like Ramsay had taken it all from him. Physically, he's just tired. Even though Ramsay was dead and gone, he could hear his voice in his head. Often he'd be talked down to, making him feel less-than. Eventually, the bombardment of hate set in and he truly became Reek. Even hearing his true name, Theon, sounded weird to his ear. It'd take time for him to shed the thick layer of skin. This persona he became, Reek.

It was hard for him to tell what he wanted. Though part of him still yearned for Pyke, his ancestral home. Despite only knowing pain there, he needed to return.

"Home…" He gulped, shivering. "Let me go back to the Iron Islands… find my sister Yara. Set things right between our people."

Jon cast a look at his sister, eyebrow-raising. Sansa shrugged, everything in her body language conveying that there was no reason for Theon to be duplicitous. To be cunning. Ramsay had beaten and mutilated him out of it, leaving the poor husk of a person reminded in the most brutal of ways where he had found true loyalty and family. At most, all the Iron Islands offered him was his sister. All else in his heart rested in Winterfell.

"The Iron Islands are weak. Their forces have been defeated wherever they attacked." Sansa dropped to her hard tone, learned over the years from such luminaries as Cersei Lannister, Littlefinger, and Roose Bolton. "The 'Iron Price' is nothing but reaving and raping, which makes you good sailors but horrible soldiers. Any attack upon us on land will be destroyed, you realize that, Theon?"

"Aye, I do." He fought the urge to retreat into being Reek. To just cower in front of his brother and sister in all but name, begging for mercy and demanding he be given orders to carry out. To be something worse than a mere dog.  _Ramsay is dead. You are Theon. Ramsay is dead._  Sansa had never called him by Ramsay's pet name. If she could believe in him, then perhaps he could rebuild his own belief in himself as well. "I don't want the Iron Islands to fight. It's only brought us death and ruin. I… I think my sister would agree."

"They'll need to come under the fold, eventually," Jon shrugged. "When Stannis takes the throne. Theon, I'd hope you could be a factor in securing them."

"Balon won't bend the knee," Sansa said.

"No, but his sister might," Jon replied, pointing at Theon.

"We're not good fighters," Theon sighed.

"You don't have to fight," Jon smirked, opening his arms. "Just stand in the way."

Sansa leaned forward, "Jon, what are you saying?"

"The Greyjoys have a lot of ships, Sansa," Jon explained, looking at her. "They can be used to blockade King's Landing when Stannis nears."

Sansa nodded, "Oh, yes, that could work. Not allow them to get any supplies from the sea."

"The city would fall in a few days," Jon added, crossing his arms. "By then our forces will be vast enough to force a surrender after the siege."

Sansa gasped, "Could be largely bloodless."

Nodding, Jon grabbed Theon by the scruff of his collar. "If I let you go, can you secure your family for Stannis?"

"I… I don't know," Theon replied. "I don't know if they'll listen to me."

"They better," Jon scowled. "Because you're going."

"I am?"

"He is?" Sansa frowned, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Shouldn't you speak with Stannis first?"

"Perhaps," Jon shrugged. "But I know what he'll say already. He needs this." Then he narrowed his gaze in Theon's direction, "You will depart within the fortnight. If you betray us again, I will do to you what you did to those boys. Clear?"

Despite his honor, there was no question Jon meant what he said. "Clear… brother…"

Several minutes later, as the bannermen closed the doors to the audience hall. Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against the wall. "Do you trust him?" he asked Sansa, who was calmly reading quartermaster reports on their supplies.

His sister was growing into a consummate leader of their House. The perfect person to entrust Winterfell with while he left - the perfect person for Rickon to learn from in case something happened to Jon. "Do you?" Sansa sent the question right back to him.

"Honestly…" He didn't know how a simple two-word question could fluster him so much. "If it were Theon of the past, I wouldn't. Robb…" Jon didn't wish to speak ill of Robb, but to properly avenge him then one had to learn from his mistakes. "Robb should have kept him as far away from the Iron Islands as possible."

"I agree, brother, but he is not the same Theon." Her conviction was absolute. "You changed in Castle Black. I changed on my journeys. He changed in his torture. The Theon now would never betray us." Walking over to Jon, she pulled him into a sisterly hug - so much like the ones he would share with Arya that a sense of sadness passed over him. How much he missed his youngest sister. "I know he didn't show you love, but neither did I. But you forgave me."

Jon returned the hug, grateful to finally have the love of Sansa. "I can't forget what he has done, Sansa."

"I don't forget what he did, but I can forgive him." She pulled back. "We have enemies all around us, Jon. The Lone Wolf dies, but the pack survives. Theon, whether our blood or not, is part of our pack. We have to keep our heads together, or else Cersei will separate them from our bodies."

Blinking, Jon started to grin. "You sound like father." The grin morphed into a chuckle.

Sansa's lips curled upward, soon laughing merrily with Jon. "We used to make fun of his odd quips, and now I'm saying them." The seriousness of the day… seven hells, the seriousness of their entire lives since leaving Winterfell so long ago, poured out as Jon and Sansa shared a torrent of childlike laughter not heard in the halls of Winterfell since that fateful day Bran fell from the tower.

* * *

A whoosh of air nearly extinguished the torch in her hand, Daenerys rocking back on her heels as the two Second Sons sellswords yanked open the door. Normally the Unsullied would do it, but this decision was done on a whim and the person in her bed at the time had graciously offered to escort her…

"Are you sure about this, my Queen?" asked Daario Naharis, his normally arrogant grin replaced with a quirky worry. "You locked them up for a reason."

 _I did, didn't I?_  Daenerys thought, melancholy invading her emotions - not that she'd show it off. "You have heard the rumors that flicker in from across Slaver's Bay." She hated that name, vowing to change it as soon as she could. "From Volantis to New Ghys, of Drogon. Attacking livestock. Stealing catches of fish from fishing boats. But no human deaths. No one burned or eaten, not since…" Tears threatened to form at the thought of that little girl, her bones blackened as the poor father laid them before her.

 _My child, dead upon this earth. I would never wish it upon anyone._  To know that Drogon had killed a child, that her dragons could kill any child, it had forced her to lock up Rhaegal and Viserion deep within the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Daenerys had never regretted that decision. Not until...

The dreams were returning in force. Slackened for a while, her sleep undisturbed, but back to invade her slumbering form for an entire week now. The familiar white wolf was at the center of everything, Daenerys unable to parse the meaning.  _Why a wolf? Why is it white? Why the snow?_  She had never seen snow, not since a sprinkling of it once in Braavos, but never snows that carpeted the ground in wide drifts that came to one's waist. But there it was. Over and over again. It irritated the Dragon Queen to no end.

This dream was different than the others though.

Caught amongst the shadows. Dark forces attacking her - in some Daenerys recognized harpies, howling like wraiths as they charged, swiping at her with their knives. But others… all Daenerys could make out from the formless monsters were glowing blue eyes. Cold and of the purest malevolence she had ever seen. In the distance, the wolf had returned, only now it fought. Fought with a ferocity she had not yet seen in her dreams - Daenerys had tried to run to the wolf, but the shadows blocked her. Blocked it. Blocked both.

And in the distance, her dragons had roared. Cries loud and mournful, their chains leaving them unable to save their mother…

Daenerys knew prophecies. She had come across many mystics and sorcerers in her life - some benign, some helpful, and some… not. One thing that all had in common, they were never direct. Always riddles. Always shadows and masks covering both their own true intentions and the true meaning of what they predicted. As such, the Queen of Meereen knew the dream meant more than the explicit threat it seemed to warn her about…

But that didn't mean she wasn't going to take the chance of leaving the warning unheeded.

"Are you sure about this?" Daario reached out and placed his hand on her waist. An intimate gesture - one shared only by the closest of lovers. "Your hold on the people themselves is tenuous as it is. Tales of dragons burning more children won't help matters."

Stilling at the feel of his hand on her, Daenerys turned her head. "I know that." She calmly removed the hand from her waist, hiding her amusement as his face fell for a split second before morphing into his normal cocky facade. Daenerys trusted Daario, respected him as a loyal follower and a gifted lover, but she was not willing to bare her soul to him - to let him close to her heart. He was companionship for lonely nights in her chambers, nothing more. "I'm confident the dragons will be a symbol of pride and safety for my people. One of terror and fear only to my enemies."

At the absolute conviction in his voice, Daario nodded. "As my Queen desires." He stepped back, allowing Daenerys to continue into the depths of the cellar.

The only light clearing away the darkness other than the lanterns in the hallway above was the torch she carried. Daenerys descended down the stone steps with caution, gingerly feeling her way forward with one foot at a time. Slowly but surely. In the void before her, two large columns came to view. "Rhaegal?" She called out, seeing nothing in the chamber itself. "Viserion?" Sadness flooded her chest, thinking of the darkness her beloved children were forced to live in.  _A dragon is no slave._  Yet she made them slaves in all but name. "Come out, my darlings…" Her voice caught from the guilt.

The last time she had journeyed down her alone, the dragons had been furious. Nearly bathing her in dragonfire and screeching at each other like crazed monsters. But dragons were perceptive, emotional creatures. Catching the pain in their mother's voice, the two great beasts slowly ambled out of the darkness. Dany gasped, tearing up in pride at her children. At how much they had grown. Rhaegal was the second largest of the three brothers, head almost the size of Daenerys below the neck - Viserion not close behind. They watched her with searching, curious eyes. A look she hadn't seen since putting them down here.

Setting the torch in a holder, she approached them. "My darlings." Slowly, gingerly, Dany rested her hand upon Rhaegal's snout. Heart clenching when the dragon flinched. "No… no my sweetling. It's alright…" She hadn't talked to them like this since even before the capture of Meereen, her children growing and growing until most saw them as monsters. _Just like they see me, as my father's daughter._

But they weren't monsters, and as Rhaegal let his mother lightly stroke his scales, Daenerys hoped she wasn't either. "Let me tell you something, my children." Her hand brushed down his jaw and neck, Rhaegal letting out a purr. "I have to marry a man tomorrow. A rich, well-respected noble here in Meereen. One I do not love, but rather for a political alliance." Daenerys chuckled as she grasped the bronzed metal collar, a stronger version of the slave collars even her greatest friend had once worn.

Tears clouded her eyes, but she continued. Baring her soul to her dragons, the only ones who could truly understand - the three of them, and Drogon, alone in the world. "I never experienced that kind of love before." Her hand enclosed around the pin that held the collar in place. "My first husband… I grew to love the safety he represented. But he was a rapist, I never loved him." The pin slid out, Dany letting it clatter on the floor before moving towards Viserion. "There is another… a sellsword. He is, quite comely, I do admit." She blushed like a maiden, rather than the Queen she was. "I enjoy his… company, but I don't see a future with him. I am a Queen."

Viserion hooted as Dany freed him. "When I take back my birthright…" There was no doubt in her voice of that fact - with all the doubts swirling through her mind, the certainty of her cause never faltered. "I will need to marry. It is the simplest way to secure an alliance, and I will need powerful houses on my side to take Westeros." Finally free, the dragons shifted, looking at her. Heads bent, lightly jostling each other for the comfort of nuzzling their mother.

Smiling sadly, Dany lovingly stroked the snouts of her children. "Such marriages aren't usually for love." The dragons purred, enjoying her touch. "Do you think I could be lucky? Finally find love with some Lord in a far off land?"

Amber eyes boring in on her, Rhaegal cocked his head. He let out a chirp.

Dany laughed. "Oh, my child." A scratch of his lower jaw drew out another purr. "I wish I was as optimistic as you."

* * *

In response to her taking the life of a man not required by the Faceless Men, her sight was taken from her. Complete darkness was all there was. They dropped her off on a cobbled street corner. She just laid there. Often kind people would toss coins at her, thinking her a beggar. Her appearance appeared as such at least, smelly saggy rags covered her back.

Her spot was that of high traffic. Constantly people passed by her, the footfalls felt on her cheek as laid.

She had no visitors, except for the Waif. She'd come every day to 'train' with Arya. Really it was more a beating. Since Arya had lost her sight, any true fighting skills went with it. She devolved into swinging wildly with no sense of direction. The Waif struck her down with ease, taunting her all the while.

"You should've died," she'd say. "For what you did."

After another beating, she laid on her back, breathing hard. Her whole body ached, lip busted, forehead bleeding, too weak to move. Hunger became an issue quickly, and no food came to her. She went as far as she could until it got to be too much to bear. Gathering what money she had given to her in a small sack, and tried to find some food. Luckily, the smell floated across her nose and she followed it. Most folks got out of her way, she felt them pass by her. Moving slowly, with her hands out, trying to find anything to guide her. Oftentimes, she'd just slide up against any walls near her. Luckily, the market was close, the noise of rampant voices flooded her eardrums. She walked until the smell brought her running into a person

Someone yelled at her, "Hey! Watch where… Oh." Arya recoiled backward, hiding her face, nearly dropping her money. The person's voice softened then, Arya noticed it to be a female, "Oh… I'm sorry." The woman's hand reached out to softly touch Arya on the shoulder. "Do you need help?"

Arya shook her head and backed up further. Then turning tail and taking off in a sprint, she didn't make it five steps before crashing into someone else. She flew off her feet and fell hard against the street. The tiny purse she clutched to herself had been loosened out of her grip, the pouch collided with the cobble and burst open. What money she had gathered, scattered all over. The voice of the person she hit bellowed, but she didn't hear a word over the ringing of her ears. Probably accounting to the collision of her skull against the ground. Those that had gathered around scrambled to steal her coins.

When she sat up, a hand laid on her shoulder, the person crowded her, shielding her from the noise. The good Samaritan's hair brushed against her cheek, and they smelled sweet. Arya assumed if her ears worked she'd hear the soothing tones of their voice. The woman she'd run into earlier comforted her now. The sort of comfort she hadn't received since her childhood, and even then she had forced it away. Now she happily welcomed it. Her time in Braavos wasn't all that she expected, it'd been much worse. It'd been some time since she ran around the Winterfell courtyard. She hadn't missed that until a couple days ago.

Then they left her, standing up. Arya missed them immediately. Thankfully, her ears began to reassume their duties. The sweet-smelling woman was sorting out the row she had started.

"She's blind," Her comforter said, pointing at Arya. "Don't you see?"

There was some more deliberation, then it all quieted down. The woman returned to Arya's side, whispering, "Come on, come with me."

This time Arya didn't argue.

* * *

Triumphantly, Jon climbed the ramparts, standing on the wall. Overlooking the massive army before his eyes, ready to move out. The soldiers stretched over the horizon farther than he could see, having departed just hours ago. While he and the King lingered in Winterfell for a bit longer to take care of a few more things, they would soon ride up to the front. Where Ser Davos and royal family waited.

Jon pulled his new cloak tighter around his form, feeling the wind pick up. Sansa had sewn him a new one a few days ago, one that looked very similar to their father's. He felt proud to wear it over his shoulders, though the new symbol of it weighed heavily on his back. A Direwolf. A fitting sigil for Jon Stark. The name meant much to him - being able to finally bear it as he always wanted. The cloak felt like the name cementing into his tombstone now, as if he finally earned it, deserved it.

In truth he was the future of his house. It helped ease his burden knowing he had Rickon back with them, but he was just a boy. Jon had the reins of House Stark, all on his shoulders.  _I will not fail you father. Will not fail you Robb._

But just as he got control, he had to leave. Because he swore himself to Stannis, and the King needed him. So he'd do what was required of him. Besides, it felt like the right thing to do. His family will never be safe while a false Baratheon sits on the throne. One controlled by the Lannisters. The last real Baratheon deserved it.

The man in question came up behind to stand next to Jon, having grown a weathered salt and pepper beard to go with his skeptical expression. "What are you doing up here? Brooding again?"

"Not so much this time, Your Grace," Jon smirked, looking out over the army again. "I don't have much to brood over right now."

"I see," Stannis replied. "What about your family, you're leaving them."

"They'll be fine," Jon said, waving his hand dismissively. "They're home. No one in the North will stand up to them, and I'm leaving plenty of men here to protect them. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, so Sansa will take care of things while Rickon learns to be a Lord just in case."

"What about those monsters beyond the wall, Stark?"

Jon's expression darkened, having actually forgotten about the icy threat looming over them. He frowned, "I hope the Wall can hold them back until we're all united."

"It has for thousands of years," Stannis answered. "No reason to believe it won't now."

"I hope you're right."

Stannis went silent for a few moments then, staring at Jon. "What is this I hear about Theon Greyjoy going back to Iron Islands?"

Jon didn't flinch. "Yes, Your Grace, I thought it'd be prudent to send the last living son of Balon Greyjoy home. In hopes he could convince his family to turn to the true King." Unlike last time, hopefully he won't betray them.

"Balon Greyjoy," Stannis scowling, spitting the words out. "Another false King."

"My King, forgive me if I am out of line, but I know that the Greyjoy fleet would be an added benefit to our army."

"How so?" Stannis tested him, knowing the true answer before he asked.

"A blockade, Your Grace," Jon replied, swallowing, trying to hold Stannis' hard gaze. "Have the Greyjoys congest the port, forbid any incoming supplies while we lay siege from land."

Stannis' expression didn't change for longer than Jon wanted, feeling a reprimand coming. Until the Stag smirked, "Good."

Jon let out a breath he'd been holding in, "You agree?"

"Of course I do," Stannis nearly laughed, making Jon smile - Stannis' smiles were rarer than his own, Davos once told him. "It's a good plan. But… don't go around me again, Stark." He raised a singular finger in the air, "You hear? Run something like that by me next time."

"Yes, Your Grace, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, just be better."

"I will."

"You trust this Theon to get it done?"

"I know he'll try," Jon pursed his lips in consideration. "He saved my sister, and I was raised beside him. He's a different person now, but I hope he can."

"False Kings, Usurpers," Stannis seethed, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "Balon Greyjoy, Tommen Lannister… Daenerys Targaryen."

Jon rocked back, somewhat stunned, "Daenerys Targaryen?"  _A silver dragon, alone and in peril._  He remembered Maester Aemon keeping tabs on her, hearing bits and pieces about the old man's last living family. How she possessed three dragons, an army, and a kingdom in across the Narrow Sea. Jon didn't know what to think about there being living dragons, seemed outlandish to him. Then again, he'd seen ice monsters leading an army of dead men north of the wall. Dragons were nothing out of the ordinary in comparison.

"Yes," Stannis said. "The foreign whore… she'll come to Westeros' eventually."

"Really?"

"Aye, and we'll need to be ready."

"Does she… really have dragons?" Jon shivered at the thought of a fire breathing dragon bearing down on him.

"Perhaps… I don't know," Stannis replied, shaking his head. "I've only heard that she does. When she lands, and if she does… My Throne will be all that she sees, she will be hard to stop."

"Three dragons… A Targaryen alone in the world…" Jon muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Stannis snapped his head in Jon's direction.

"Nothing, Your Grace," Jon inclined his chin with a small smile. "Just something I heard once."

The King's eyes lingered on the Stark for a few moments, Jon held his gaze. Finally, Stannis said, "If it's true, if she's truly the Dragon Queen, three full grown dragons…" His voice left him, words failing.

Jon finished the sentence, "Who could stop her?"

"There's always a way, and I am the Prince that is Promised. I'll find a way." Stannis grunted, looking back out, "We should be off." With that, he descended down the steps behind them. Jon turned around, taking in Winterfell before him. His home, a place he'd fought so hard to retake, but now had to leave. He watched over all the people in the courtyard, working - some carried wood planks to places that needed repair, others hammered breastplates. He saw Stannis walk over to their waiting horses, speaking with some of his bannermen there, Lord Reed and Brienne lightly chatting beside their horses waiting for Jon. Ghost and Shaggydog sharing one last romp together, as if sensing they would be apart once more.

Sansa and Rickon came out of the keep and entered the open air. They strolled into the middle of the courtyard, then stopped when they saw Jon staring at them. The Lord of Winterfell moved down the ramparts until his boots sunk into the mud. His feet carried him until he stood before his brother and sister. When he got there, he smiled and raised his arms to all around them, "You'll take care of the place while I'm gone?"

Sansa grinned as Rickon stepped forward quickly, careening into Jon's chest and wrapping his arms around his brother. Jon laughed, returning the hug, burying his nose into Rickon's curly locks. Then he felt another form wrap around the two of them, he knew it to be Sansa. The three Starks stood there for a while, just holding each other. Closer than ever before. Until Sansa and Rickon broke the embrace, eyes watering.

Jon raised his eyebrows, dropping to a knee so he'd be eye level with Rickon, "Don't cry. I'll be back. I'm coming back, I'll return to my home." He removed his gloves then brushed his smaller sibling's tears away, "Don't worry."

Rickon embraced his brother again, his sniffles buried in Jon's chest. Then the tiny Stark looked up at Jon, "I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go either, little one," Jon frowned, mouth pressed into a tight line. "But I must."

"Why?"

"Because I made a promise, and I must keep it. As Father would."

Sansa stepped forward, wrapping her fingers through Rickon's air, "Come on, Rickon, Jon has to go."

Reluctantly, Rickon let go, backing up, unable to stop the flow of tears from his eyes. Jon turned to Sansa, his sister stepped close as Jon lightly cupped her face, placing a kiss on her forehead. Using his thumbs to wipe her tears, "I'm coming back."

"I know," she said, taking a deep breath. "We'll miss you."

Jon let go of her, and began backing up, "The Lone Wolf dies..."

Sansa put her arm around Rickon, the two of them watching Jon climb his horse next to Stannis. Their brother shared one last glance at them, before he smiled, and left with Stannis out the opened gate that'd they just charged through just some days ago. Ghost hot on his master's heels, bolting out into the open space beyond Winterfell's gates.

Whispering, Sansa finished the sentence for her brother:

_"But the Pack survives."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: I really do like this one. The Stark stuff is always fun for us to write about.
> 
> Lemme just apologize from the both of us here, the updates have been few and far between for a couple different reasons. I'm not going to get into right now, but we're gonna try to be better moving forward. I myself have had some issues writing as I've alluded to before, hats off to my co-writer here people. He's done a lot.
> 
> It'll get better once the action picks back up.
> 
> Longclaw: Concludes the "Jon in the North" arc of the story. Pretty much at the end of season 5 (Hardhome happened earlier thanks to Stannis' cooperation).
> 
> About Dany's dreams, they are designed to serve a purpose. To... temper her "fire and blood" for a future event that will become evident. Hope you enjoyed her convo with the dragons.
> 
> I know that after season 8, opinions of the Starks (especially Sansa) have collapsed, but it doesn't get rid of the fact that we were robbed. Jon never got to have the love and the family that he so craved, only falling back into the unwanted bastard that he had been in the beginning. Such was the flaw in Sansa's character. She wasn't supposed to become Cersei 2.0, and here, we prevented that. The pack is close and strong, as it should have been.
> 
> Be sure to check out my new fic A Terrible Resolve! Plus our already existing fics Empire of Ice and Fire, To Catch a Dream (on Ao3), and My End is Your Beginning.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	12. Revolt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hey everyone! Sorry bout the long delay. I had my bar exam, and then I was doing my best to make sure this story came out just right. But don't fret. We have some really exciting stuff coming up!
> 
> Oh, I just came across a really interesting new story. It's called Gift of the Gods by Nielsen1984, an AU story just published that looks to be an intriguing take on Jon and Daenerys. Really recommend it!
> 
> BRuh4: Hey y'all, sorry about the wait. It was the result of a combination of things. We both had a lot going on in real life and writer's block got in the way. We didn't wanna rush it so we took our time until it was finished.
> 
> That being said this is an exciting one. Plenty of action and a whole lot more to come, strap in.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Comment, Kudos, and Bookmark!

"You actually keep them around your neck?" Brienne asked, incredulous.

Grinning, Davos held up his left hand - missing the tops of his pinky, ring, and middle fingers. "Aye, keep 'em for luck. Been good luck too."

"I wouldn't consider being locked up for months on the order of the Lady Melisandre to be good luck, Davos," Jon replied, smirking. Each of the men - and the one woman - bobbed on their horses. Close to arriving at Moat Cailin, the vast expanse of grass left not much to do except banter among themselves.

"Well, the Lady Shireen would come down to read to me. And I had plenty of time to learn to read myself in that cell… so I consider it good luck."

Howland Reed laughed, reaching over to slap Jon on the back of his leather gambeson. "He's got you there, My Lord."

Jon rolled his eyes before laughing with the others. "Aye, that is good luck, Davos."

Brienne wasn't laughing, still slightly queasy about the whole thing. Her duty to Renly still applied, but also her duties to Catelyn and Jon. If she was going to gain revenge for Renly's death, she would have to know everything she could about Stannis Baratheon's confidants. "Still, isn't it morbid? Stannis to cut off your fingers for helping him?"

"Stannis has a keen sense of justice," Davos replied. "I lived my life as a smuggler, and so the fingers were punishment for that. However, I earned Stannis' trust, so he made me his advisor and now his Hand. The kind of man and King his Grace is. Rewarding when need be and punishing when need be."

Sounds of cursing rang out some ways behind them. "Lady Brienne." Podrick rode up, mud covering his cuirass. "Wagon stuck in the mud. They're asking for you."

"Well why can't you handle it?"

Podrick looked sheepish. "Need another hand, and no soldier would listen to a 'Boy from the Westerlands.'" It was clear he was censoring the actual words used.

A snarl left Brienne. "Seven hells, do I have to cut your meat for you too?!" Reigning in his horse, the lady knight trotted off to the rear with her squire.

"Ever miss the smuggling life, Lord Davos?" Howland asked after the three stopped laughing. "I enjoyed traveling through Westeros with Lord Stark during the Rebellion. Not the fighting mind you, but seeing the rest of our Seven Kingdoms. Only had seen Harrenhal and the northern Riverlands beforehand."

That question caused Davos to think. "No, I don't. I can provide far better for my family now… but I did enjoy sailing all over the Narrow Sea."

"At least be glad you lived such far-flung lives, my Lords." Smiling sheepishly, eyes squinting in the high noonday sun, Jon looked out over the horizon. Catching the first glimpse of the towers of Moat Cailin. "I only learned of such far-flung places in the stories. Aside from one trip to White Harbor, I've never been south of Torhen's Square. Never left the North."

Catching a grimace on Howland's face, Davos was about to enquire but thought better of it. "Why that's no way to live, Jon. I may not have been some world traveller like Oberyn Martell or that insane brother of Balon Greyjoy, but as a smuggler I traveled all over. Saw Pentos, Braavos, Dorne, the Reach, Lys...:" The older man grinned, dropping his voice into a whisper so that his son - Jon's squire - wouldn't hear.. "I love my wife desperately, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her." The three men shared a laugh. "Gotta see the world before ya' settle down, Jon."

A wistful look appeared on Jon's face. "My father was fostered in the Vale, so saw much. He told me the Eyrie was beautiful, but... I always did wish to see Dragonstone, where Aemon the Dragonknight was raised." Oh, how he and Robb had spent hours in the courtyard at a time, he Aemon and his brother Duncan the Tall.

"Stannis' seat is Dragonstone. I'm sure he'd host you there." Davos pondered it. "Seven Hells, he'd probably give ya' the damn place after all you've done."

"Couldn't very well turn that down," Jon mused. "But… I'd have to ride south to maintain it every now and again, and Stark's don't fare well in the south. My father rode this very road for a Baratheon King, and…" Memories of his father were like that. Happiness and joy, followed by a deep sadness that Jon would never see Eddard Stark again. "He…" An errant tear formed in his eye. "He promised that he'd tell me about my mother…" Jon didn't know why was divulging this. Only Sam and Maester Aemon… But with the memory stabbing into his heart, he could use the fatherly advice of the two older Lords.

"I knew your mother…" Jon's head jerked to look at Howland Reed with shock. Davos blinked as well, intrigued. "Didn't know her as well as Ned did, but I did see her."

Jon could feel his body tremble. "Who… who was she?" His eyes clouded with tears, finally able to put an identity on his mother.

Howland shook his head. "I don't remember her name, but I do remember she was of the North." A pair of grey eyes widened. "Knew your father when they grew up in Winterfell together."  _He's not ready for the actual truth… no one is._   _Not while any Baratheon or Lannister King lives._  "Lovely, carefree girl. Loved to ride. Was in Harrenhal when Ned saw her, then the next time was in Dorne. When we took you back north."

"Is she… is she alive?" Jon hesitated to ask, but needed to know.

"No, my Lord. She died in Dorne, from childbirth, with you."  _Gods help me, that is not a lie._

"Seven Hells… I'm sorry lad," Davos offered, reaching out to put a fatherly hand on Jon's shoulder.

Lips pursed, eyes shut as he dipped his head. Jon was beyond tears. "Thank you, Davos." He looked up, meeting Howland's gaze with a sad smile. Resignation in his expression. "I'm glad you told me." He chuckled, a dry one that didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't expect my mother to be a northerner. I guess that explains my father's reluctance. Didn't want to damage anyone's memory, especially one known in Winterfell." Gazing out at the clouds, the waving winter demons that draped themselves over the north to herald such a desolate time… at that very moment, the clouds had split apart to reveal the sun.

"My Lords!" The three of them glanced upward as three riders approached. One a dispatcher, helmeted and carrying a fluttering flaming heart banner of House Baratheon of Dragonstone. The second, Karsi, looking quite uncomfortable atop her horse - only white walkers rode north of the Wall. The other… was Melisandre. Her lips set in triumph.  _This is not gonna be good._  The rider bowed from the saddle. "Urgent news."

"Tell me," Davos replied gruffly. As the Hand, he technically outranked all others. "Well don't dither around like a fool. Tell your Hand."

The dispatch rider cleared his throat. "Wildl…" He paled slightly at the presence of Jon, the champion of those from north of the Wall. "Free Folk scouts have spotted the Lannister host. They're at the Twins."

Jon furrowed his brows. "Leave Riverrun to the Blackfish? That would cut off their supply lines to the Westerlands." Casterly Rock was far closer to the Twins than King's Landing was. Jaime Lannister wasn't the caliber of general as Tywin or Robb was, but the Lannister armies had veterans such as Leo Lefford, Addam Marbrand, and Roland Crakehall. "Are you sure it wasn't just reinforcement of the Twins?" Said castle was practically one of the best positions in Westeros for defense.

"My wargs don't lie, Lord Crow," Karsi replied. "The lines of 'gold armor' as they said stretch along the northern Kingsroad for leagues. The vanguard already passing through the bridge castle." Jon knew not to discount the skills of free folk wargs.

"Perhaps the Blackfish abandoned Riverrun knowing we were coming," Howland suggested. "He gets nothing if the Lannisters defeat us then turn on him. We win, he wins, simple as that."

Looking at Karsi, Jon gave the orders - as Warden of the North, only King Stannis outranked him in authority over his northern subjects. "Find the Tully forces. Have both wargs and foot scouts searching. We need to know if we can count on such reinforcements."

"Aye, Lord Crow." Karsi bowed - half sarcastically - before urging the horse off to the other wildlings. Jon smirking with amusement as she winced, unused to the saddle.

"The King requires your presence at the field headquarters," the dispatch rider finished, finally allowed by Jon to speak once more.

"We are witnessing legends being written, my Lords," Melisandre stated, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. She had been largely absent in Winterfell, confining herself to her quarters except for several meetings with Stannis - to, 'consult the auspices within the flames' as she explained before the march from Winterfell began. Her red eyes, a gentle burgundy rather than a piercing crimson, bored in on Jon. "The Lannisters think they are the golden ones, but it is our King and his loyal disciples that will bring the light to their darkness." With that, she turned and galloped off. Unlike Karsi, her riding was top notch.

Shrugging, Davos shared a wry grin. "Told ya' she confuses me… but I don't disagree with her sentiment."

Jon nodded, motioning to Brienne, Podrick, Devon, and his three other household guard behind him. "Well, we can't keep the King waiting." A flick of the reins sent the Lords and their retinue forward.

* * *

The woman who helped Arya took her back to her cottage. It was a nice enough place. For a minstrel of sorts at least, as Arya learned. The woman was called 'Lady Crane' or such as she was referred to. Crane patched up Arya to the best of her ability, going on about dealing with stitches many times before. The Waif had truly done quite the number on Arya, lip busted wide open, a few cuts along her arms and legs, bruises the size of a fist.

Crane made a mediocre soup, it tasted awful but anything sustenance felt good to Arya. Crane regaled her about the many 'plays' she'd been a part of. The words didn't make much sense to Arya, she'd never heard of a performance such as Crane explained. After Arya put away two bowls of soup, Crane watched the girl pass out in her bed. Not daring to do anything to stop her, just smiling and leaving her in peace.

The next morning Arya awoke with a start, her mind reminding her of the events of the last couple days. Battling off the confusion of where she was became the first thing she did, reflexes snapping in. Waking up in the dark never ceased to scare her, the loss of her eyes had taken more than her sight. The little girl from Winterfell returning to visit, sometimes for long spans.

Crane came in quickly, hearing the startle. Her presence calmed Arya, the welcoming warmth, unlike anything she'd seen since Winterfell. After some more soup, Arya explained she had to return the street corner, knowing the Waif would be there waiting. Crane pleaded with her to stay, or at the very least help her make it back. Neither options appealed to Arya, if the blindness was a test as she assumed she shouldn't take help from anyone. If it was just a punishment in essence, the Waif likely wouldn't visit her. Despite their constant never ending obvious hatred for her, attempting further training with her doesn't make sense unless it's a test.

Not hearing any arguments, Crane assisted Arya back to street level. Like a hawk she watched Arya wander down the street, fighting off notions to help.

Thankfully, Crane's place wasn't too far from the market. Arya found her way back after a while, and then the path back to her street corner not too long after that. Her body making up for the lack of her sight, senses taking advantage. She felt herself grow a bit stronger, whether from her belly full of food or a newfound fortitude to move forward.

The Waif made herself known as soon as Arya turned the corner and descended the steps.

"Where were you?" She asked. If Arya could see her face she was sure there'd be a scowl on it.

Arya slowly made her way down the steps, hugging the wall nearest her. Not immediately replying, the Waif stomped her foot, "I asked you a question."

The blind one finally reached the bottom, near the Faceless Man. The Waif approached Arya, who didn't waver. A wooden staff rolled to her feet, It was picked it up quickly. What followed was an interaction not dissimilar from their last. Though this time Arya stood her ground.

As the Waif wailed on her, she didn't falter, retaliating as best she could. Swinging back, having no idea if she'd hit anything. Resulting in her rapidly flinging the staff around, in all directions around her.

Quickly she realized the Waif was gone. If she had still been there, surely she would've stuck by now. The presence of her sparring partner gone, the stick dropped to the ground with a clatter. Returning to her small space on the ground, trying to rest. Though the gravel-like ground didn't much compare to the feather bed in Crane's apartment.

Many days after went on similar to the last, waiting for the Waif to come to her.

Eventually, Arya became accustomed to the darkness. Having been in it so long she'd been adapted to survive in it, even thrive. All her other senses heightened, she became able to track the Waif as she moved. Honed in on her breathing, the small sounds of her feet gliding over the stone ground. No longer could the Waif dance around her in senseless bliss. Surprising the Waif back bringing the staff up to thwart a downward swing. Arya was able to parry, and block incoming blows. Soon after that she could attack, get on the offensive.

The Waif left that day in a huff, all twisted up in anger. When she was gone Arya laid back down and fell asleep as soon as her eyes closed. The next day she felt the presence of someone else, not the Waif.

"If a Girl follows she may get her eyes back."

* * *

Much to her delight, Arya's sight was returned. Once again able to see, enjoy the vigors of vision. Her gained abilities from the time she spent in the darkness didn't falter or dissipate. Yet felt reinvigorated, and empowered. She could hear the fluttering of birds in the open air, or the low tones of people murmuring. All her senses seemed heightened. Never had she felt more complete, more able.

But also much to her dismay, the God of Death claimed a person that recently grew close to her. A punishment of sorts, for her weakness, even worse that she should carry out the deed. These people she'd shacked up with, seeking the abilities that would give her vengeance for her family's destruction. She'd done it unknowing what it would cost her. She only saw what she wanted from them. Possibly a bit of bad judgement on her part, but she couldn't take it back. It's not all bad though, now she had gained the skills she needed.

The person the God of Death had claimed was Lady Crane for reasons unknown. They had given her to Arya to take care of. It's not surprising that they somehow knew Crane had helped her. Even though it was just the one time. She hadn't seen Crane since then. Arya assumed it was a test to see if she was truly loyal to the Faceless Men. Her loyalties weren't even clear to her, she knew she needed to take vengeance against those that had wronged her family. Even now, she remembered the names:

_Cersei Lannister._

_The Mountain._

_IIyn Payne._

_The Red Woman._

_Beric Dondarrion._

_Thoros of Myr._

_Walder Frey._

The others had either been ended by her own hand or taken care of by someone else. Even in Braavos she'd heard of the deaths of Tywin and Joffrey. Taking the lives of the rest was the only thing she desired now. None of them were on this side of the sea.

They all breathed in Westeros. So that's where she'd needed to go.

It wasn't hard to find possible passage back across the sea to Westeros. After a brisk walk through the port, she discovered the seamen frequented a tavern nearby. Therefore, there would be the best spot to begin her search for a boat to take her home. The smell of the laughter brought her there, also the dank smell of alcohol filling the air. Her feet carried her through the wooden double doors. Nearly recoiling at the sound of all the voices, jeering and sneering at each other. Several tables littered with greasy men bashing there jugs of wine together.

Arya strolled through, listening in. Hearing all sorts of conversation, much about Braavos, these big fish they caught. Whispers of the ongoings of events in Westeros, she didn't really listen to them.

Near the back, two men sat together. They looked professional enough, and Westerosi. She could smell the seawater off them from a distance. One of them had dark hair, with a bushy bear, and the other was an older man with a white beard.

They saw her approach, the older one said, "Unless you're gonna bring us more wine, fuck off."

Arya ignored him, "You're from Westeros, I'd like to go home."

The dark haired one stroked his beard and said, "You can't afford it, girly."

In response Arya tossed a sack of silver on the table, and older one snatched it up, and peered inside. "Where'd you get this from?"

"What does that matter?"

They looked at each other, and then back to her, "We leave in two days, you can have a hammock."

The second sack of silver hitting the table nearly had them turning pale, "I want a cabin."

"Sure," one of them said. "Whatever you want."

Then grabbed the bags before they could stuff them in their pockets, "We'll also be leaving at dawn. See you then." With that she turned from them, leaving the two of them in tailspin.

When the sun rose the next day, the prospect of returning home excited her. Even though the unknowns that hung over her. Having no idea what she'd find when she arrived. News from the west rarely carried to Braavos, aside from the large events like a King dying. So whatever waited for her across the Narrow Sea… would be a total surprise. Surely, she'd hear some mumblings over her journey home. Hopefully some good things, but she wasn't deluded, the possibility of things being worse than she left them could be high. She left her family in disarray. They'd likely still be in the same shape, or so she guessed.

From the cobble streets of Braavos she watched the sun rise. Feeling excited this was her last day in the city. She'd be going home. Today. The little girl in her rearing its head, yet the grown woman inside gritted her teeth. Steeling her resolve to what she'd needed to do.

Revenge.

Moments later her mind wandered to Lady Crane. She hadn't considered what would become of her. The Faceless Men wanted her dead, and they wanted her to be the one to kill her. When she decided to leave, she assumed that Crane would be left alone. Her mind began to wonder if that was true or not. Would they leave her be?

It didn't take her long to decide that they definitely wouldn't leave her alone. Perhaps she could go retrieve her, and take them with her across the sea. But what if it's a trap? What if the Faceless Men know she's trying to leave and maybe they think she'll go back for Crane. Where the Waif will be waiting to kill her. There's no telling what they'll want to do to her after she neglects to kill Crane as they want. It's likely they'll want to add her face to the hall. Of course, Arya should avoid that outcome. Even if it means leaving Crane to them to take care of themselves.

In the end, the woman doesn't mean all that much to her anyway. Crane provided help when it was needed and that's it. To do what she needed to do, perhaps she needed to let certain feelings die. The more… human tendencies, allow herself to leave an innocent woman to die because her life isn't worth the risk of losing her own.

Not when she has things left to do.

She didn't let herself care about Crane as she boarded the ship. Merely emotionless as they cast off, as she watched Braavos get farther and farther away until totally out of sight.

* * *

The roars and cheers left the throats of tens of thousands of onlookers like an undulating wave. Echoing off the bowl of the great fighting pits, finally reopened after years. The last time the great city of Meereen had provided such bread and circuses for the masses had been just before the Mother of Dragons had liberated - or sacked, for those with a differing viewpoint - Yunkai, and a sense of excitement had descended on the city. Paying the modest fee to catch a glimpse of the once in a lifetime spectacle. The first games of House Targaryen, first ever with the participation restricted to free men competing for glory and gold, not for their masters' whims. Heralding a new beginning for Meereen and all of Slaver's Bay.

In one fluid sweep of their hands, the various fighters slammed their fists against their chests in salute. "We who are about to die," they each proclaimed in Valyrian - some their native tongue, some obviously foreign by their halting accents. "Fight for the glory of our names and our Queen."

I would rather you lived for me, noble fighters. Daenerys watched the scene with numbness. A simmering anger, and quite a lot of apprehension. Even free men… she did not wish any of these men to die for the amusement of the crowd. Though Westerosi tourney melees sometimes ended in death, it was never an intended prospect.

"Your Grace?" The syrupy words of her husband, Hizdar zo Loraq, brought her out of the reverie. "You must stand and clap, before it can begin. The people are likely getting impatient."

Wishing she could just end this, Daenerys nevertheless stood. Radiant in her white, form fitting dress and gossamer cape. Matching the silver of her hair and the fairness of her Valyrian features near perfectly. The representation of the ancient adage of trueborn Valyrians being the manifestation of the divine upon the earth. Slowly, gingerly, Dany raised her hands up. The clap resounding across the pit, the raucous cheer only came a split second later, fighters already charging at each other in the vicious melee.

Beside her, Dany could sense the normally soft-spoken Hizdar - for the life of her, she would never see him as her husband - was transformed into an excited spectator at the fight. "There's a brute from the Summer Isles," he commented, pointing to a rather large fellow with dark skin. He brought a large mace down upon a smaller man, lighter skinned and darting out of the way. "And he's from the Yi Ti, you can tell from the curved sword. Very rare in these parts. We're in for a treat."

"I bet on the little one," Daario commented. "You can tell he wants it, as did I when I fought in these pits." He smirked as the Yi Ti expertly sidestepped an attack, lashing out with his sword to draw blood. "Yep, he'll win."

Hizdar looked at him incredulously. "Size matters here, Naharis."

The sellsword grinned. "Oh? How's about ten gold dragons on it?"

"Done." The words had only just been spoken when the Summer Islander brought the mace down directly on the smaller man's head, blood spurting out. Hizdar laughed, slapping Daario on the back. "I'll expect my money on the morrow."

Daenerys simply rolled her eyes at the antics. Men had their lust for combat and she didn't begrudge that, but for fighting pits… It was just so senseless.

"Pardon, your Grace." Daenerys looked down to see Tyrion waddle to the chair to her right. "Forgive me for being late, but I had some matters to attend to."

"Oh?" Suddenly, a particular competitor removed his helmet, causing her breath to hitch. Jorah… He'd appeared out of nowhere yet again for the second time. One might've thought that after being sent away not once but twice, would beget a hesitancy to ever appear again. Yet here Ser Jorah was, fighting for her 'amusement.' A part of her wished for his head to be separated from his shoulders, another part just wanting him far away from her. Though deep inside her she knew that either one of those things would disappoint her.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion. I… I need a distraction," she said, but her eyes kept firm on Jorah, watching with bated breath as the master swordsman of Bear Island hacked and slashed his way through the other fighters.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Tyrion reached out for the chilled wine on the serving table. "I realized, that even the noble families of Meereen are rather greedy. They live in luxury despite your Grace's taxes, so that means the Sons of the Harpy must be getting outside support..."

The words registered in her ear, but Dany was too concentrated on not showing her fear outwardly as the large Summer Islander charged at Jorah. The knight's sword only just stopped the mace from cleaving his skull.

"Therefore, I had Varys' Little Birds track several suspected Harpy spies, and it seems like we've found where the funds are coming from."

Seeing Jorah start to gain the upper hand, Daenerys allowed herself the breathing room to look at Tyrion. "Where?" She would take Rhaegal and Viserion there to burn wherever it was down.

Tyrion grimaced. "Volantis, my Queen. The rich slavers there are funnelling funds through Astapor and Yunkai in order to foment uprisings here. At least that what it looks like."

Dany's blood boiled, fists clenching. Images of the city of Volantis a pile of ash and flame coursed through her mind, of the lesson that she would teach the slaver scum of what would happen if they so dared to tangle with House Targaryen…

"MY QUEEN!" Her eyes swiveled to the pits just as Jorah tossed a spear in her direction…

Only to hit a figure running at her from behind. A clash of steel directed her attention to Ser Barristan, removing his sword from the gut of a blue silk swathed man, blood spurting as he fell to the floor. Both wore the masks of the Sons of the Harpy - and behind them, all amongst the stands, hundreds began to don the masks.

Revolt.

* * *

Barely several minutes had passed, but already it seemed like hours. The pits had descended into complete and total anarchy, blood blanketing the soil in a malevolent crimson. Already strewn on the ground was the broken body of Hizdar zo Loraq, the broken bodies of at least a dozen Unsullied. Countless innocents that had their lives taken away by the Sons of the Harpy for the cardinal sin of enjoying the games their Queen put on for them.

Said Queen was currently being dragged by Daario - refusing to let go of her handmaiden's hand. Daenerys watched as several bare-chested or blue-clad harpies rushed them, Unsullied taking a ragged formation to block their path. Ser Jorah, the faithful bear, took the van. His sword already slick with the blood of the harpies. Ser Barristan lagged near the back of the pack, taking on any stragglers that trailed them. They fought their way towards the alternate exit tunnel, the one pointed out by Hizdar before his death.

Daenerys felt nothing for him, but now the carnage was reaching those she did care about. Now a harpy hefted his body up, only to saw through his neck with a thin blade. Moments later the harpy lifted Hizdar's head up, gore dripping to the floor, before throwing it as far as he could in Daenerys' direction. A sign of what's to come, in their minds anyway.

"Go!" Barrstan yelled, deflecting a giant scimitar as if it were a twig - the harpies had bloodlust, but little skill. Daario soon joined him, fluid movements leaving two bare-chested attackers with disemboweled stomachs. "We'll hold them off!" Unsullied lifting their shields to ward off arrows, Dany and her companions ducked into the exit tunnel.

Bright sunlight ahead of them, Jorah reached out his uninfected hand to literally haul Daenerys along the tunnel. "Almost there, Khaleesi…" They would be far safer in the open streets among the people. "Almost there…" Out of thin air appeared two harpies. Bare chests tanned as the inhuman masks stared at them. Pushing closed the heavy wooden door that now blocked their path. Jorah slammed on the door, kicking it - but it wouldn't budge. "Damn."

The idea was to return the fighting pits to their former glory. Daenerys had allowed animals to be trapped and taken to the pits to be used during the fighting. As soon as the Harpies began their attack, they set loose two lions. Jumping out into the ring, roaring out loud enough that everyone could hear. Then creeping towards the group, teeth bared and eyes menacingly narrowed. Sword twirling in his wrist - a trick he picked up from Arthur Dayne while the Sword of the Morning had lived - this moment wasn't the first that Barristan wished for the steel plate of his Stormlands style armor. Functional in the humid heat of Slaver's Bay his leather cuirass was, but able to protect against the claws and fangs of a great beast it was not. Beside him, Daario bounced on his feet, curved arkh at the ready. They spread their arms wide, hoping to intimidate the lions.

It did not work. With a roar, one of the beasts leapt at Barristan, claws bared. Even dulled by age, Barristan's reflexes were still sharp. He raised the shield quickly to absorb the weight of the leaping lion. But it still sent him sprawling to the ground, fangs ripping the shield away as the wind was knocked out of him.

Slashing at him with its paws, the beast missed Daario by a wide berth - dearth of armor and small blade leaving him quick on his feet, able to maneuver around the lunges of the lion. Dashing forward with his arkh. Drawing blood and darting back before the lion could claw at him.

Coughing, sucking in air, Barristan instinctively rolled onto his stomach as the lion leaped. Teeth bared to rip out the knight's neck but only tearing through the air. Cloud of dust kicked up causing the lion to howl as it hit its eyes, Barristan rolled back onto his back and allowed the castle-forged steel to sing in a downwards cut. Tasting bright red blood as it bit into flesh and bone.

The lion howled in pain - much as did Daario as a swipe of the paws slashed against his torso, arkh sallying forth to rip open the creature's neck - lunging at Barristan once more with fury in its eyes. But the cagey old knight was ready for it. Angling his sword, the beast ran itself through the heart. Blood spurting everywhere as the life ebbed from it.

Daario spat on the dusty ground, quickly parrying the charging blow of a squat, fat harpy before slicing open the expansive stomach. His chest hurt like hells, but kept fighting. Especially as the royal party emerged from the exit tunnel. "It's blocked!" Jorah exclaimed, his sword joining the fray as the Unsullied formed a tight perimeter around Missandei, Tyrion, and the Queen.

"Fuck!" He could hear the rushing feet of far more coming for them. "Form a circle! Tight in the middle!" There wasn't much else to do. Keep the Queen in the open and hope reinforcements arrived soon. Wiping the blood and sweat off his brow as they raced for the center of the arena, Daario glanced at Daenerys. Seeing her face serene and pleading. Gaze angled to the heavens.

_Rhaegal… Viserion… come. Please come._

But all that answered her were the piercing shrieks from the harpies, flooding into the pits with knives and short swords. Masks of glittering gold molded into that of pure malevolence. Some brash ones charged immediately - the Unsullied cut them down, one apparently leading the pack skewered by Ser Barristan. The old knight having pushed off the lion carcass and scrambled to his feet. But even with the dozen taken down with ease, there were still hundreds.

"Stay behind me, Khaleesi," Jorah remarked, hands tight on the hilt of his sword. Despite his past. Despite his betrayal, Dany complied, finding a sense of safety behind her oldest protector. She and Missandei clutched at each other, flinching as the line of blue or gold-swaddled harpies darted forward, rippling menacingly.

Eyes shut, Daenerys did something she never had before. Prayed. Prayed to whatever was out there for a savior. Images flashed in her mind… of a white wolf. One that she beseeched the very heavens were here - Dany knew not what the wolf even was, but craved it by her side even so. Please…

What echoed through the pit was not the howl of the wolf, but it was salvation all the same. The bloodlust that gripped the harpies morphed, confusion and worrying evident even with the expressionless masks. All looked to the skies, blue and unblemished but clearly from where the roars had come from...

And there they were. Not only the cream and green bat-shaped creatures, but also that of pure black and red. A demon from the fires of Old Valyria, roars and shrieks shaking the very core of the harpies as that of the demons ridden into battle by the Targaryen Conquerors of Westeros. Fear ripping through those that stood against her, for Daenerys it was a slow arriving joy. "Drogon…" All of her children had come.

It was like a blur. All passing by her vision in both slow motion and fast forward, how Drogon leapt into her defense, point blank immolating the harpies in red-hot dragonfire. Of Rhaegal and Viserion, still aloft as they spread their flames upon the forces in the stands. Giving cover to their brother before scorching the tunnels so that none could be used against their mother ever again. No force could hope to stand against them.

Rhaegal and Viserion screeching madly, tongues of flame angling towards fleeing harpies, Daenerys approached Drogon. Her child hooting in pain, jet-black skin marred with several gaping wounds. A pair of spears still sticking out. The air was pungent with smoke and charred flesh, but Dany paid it no need - surreally, she wrapped her hands around one of the spears, pulling it out. Drogon screamed in pain and fury.

"Shhhh, shhhh." Softly stroking his snout, Dany quickly pulled out the other spear. "It's alright, sweetling." The dragon growled, allowing his mother to gently climb atop him.

Pulling his sword out of the now still corpse of a harpy, Barristan turned to watch his Queen. Eyes widening as she mounted the great dragon. In awe as a dragonrider emerged onto the earth for the first time since the Dance of Dragons. If only Rhaegar could have seen this… His heart ached for his dead friend, but soared to see his legacy live on.

"My children." Despite nothing but a murmur, all three turned their heads to her. Leaning to hug Drogon's neck, the last whisper changed everything. "Sovegon." And with a mighty flap of his wings, Drogon leapt into the air with his mother. Brothers following close behind. Screeches and hoots echoing all across the great city.

And Daenerys, watching all of it with observant eyes, could have sworn hearing the mournful howl of the white wolf from her dreams. Begging her, calling her to her homeland. Taking in a breath of the crisp air as Drogon climbed ever higher, Dany lost herself into the moment. The blood of Old Valyria. Returned to the skies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: I love Arya but she's kinda hard to write. Honestly her section was what really took so long. What we did with her Braavos stuff is a bit different from canon. We didn't want to have it be exactly the same, though still many of it had to happen anyway. The blindness and her training, being paramount. We were quit to omit that stuff with mummers, yet we included Crane for a bit. Basically it all culminated in a quicker exodus from Braavos. We've got some cool stuff in store for Arya, keep your eye on her.
> 
> Longclaw: The fighting pits scene is necessary for Dany's character development, so we couldn't skip it. Tyrion actually acts smartly this time, so a continuation of early show Tyrion.
> 
> Couldn't deny Jon a little bit about his mother. Howland isn't lying, if you think about it.
> 
> Next chapter is the log anticipated clash between Stannis and Jaime! If we get at least 30 comments, we'll update on Wed :D
> 
> Be sure to check out Gift of the Gods, very interesting new story by a new writer for the fandom.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	13. The North Remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Well, here's the promised chapter. Back into the huge action!
> 
> Oh, I just came across a really interesting new story. It's called Gift of the Gods by Nielsen1984, an AU story just published that looks to be an intriguing take on Jon and Daenerys. Really recommend it!
> 
> BRuh4: Here we are, posting 13 on Wednesday as we promised. Thanks much for all the comments and support, it helps a lot. I feel like I say this every time we post but I really like this chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

The markings upon the map displayed in front of the collection of men and women signified far more than mere squiggles and figurines on paper. Fresh upon the soil of the Riverlands, the Baratheon army had found their Lannister counterparts. The host commanded by the Kingslayer himself, camped only two miles to the west, straddled upon the road to the Twins abbutting the Kingsroad. A titanic clash inevitable between them.

There wasn't any snow falling in the Riverlands, but that didn't make it any less cold. Braziers burning hot to ward it off. "I remember riding with my father down this very same road," Smalljon Umber remarked, standing with his hands over the fire. "We needed the Twins then to get to Riverrun, and we need it now - else we get cut off from the North."

"Agreed," said Davos. "We must engage the Kingslayer. Bad ground or no. Defeat him, and take the Twins."

"Taking the Twins will destroy House Frey's reputation, regardless of whether that oathbreaking fuck manages to escape." There were few people that Jon fully despised. Walder Frey was one of them. "The entire Riverlands would likely defect to us as they did to Aegon the Conqueror if we secure a victory. And this is our best chance."

The young Lord Cerwyn spoke up. "Are we sure that Lothar Frey hasn't brought up his bannermen with the Kingslayer?"

Howland Reed shook his head. "My scouts have only found the banners of House Bracken, House Piper, House Mudd, and House Mallister. Around four thousand men, more or less."

"So the Kingslayer outnumbers us." When the King spoke, all fell silent. "Not as decisively as the Boltons did, and we defeated them." He looked to his Hand. "Any word of the Blackfish?" Two thousand men of House Tully - they could go a long way.

Davos shook his head. "No, your Grace. Neither hide nor hair of him has been spotted since news of Riverrun's abandonment."

Stannis mouthed something, and from his position Jon could make out the word 'shit.' "Very well, our plans will not change. Everyone but Lord Stark, Lord Seaworth, and Lady Melisandre will retire to their commands. Including you, my Queen." Casting a hateful glare at Jon, Queen Selyse led the Lords out.

Hands splayed across the table, Stannis stared intently at the map. Jaw locked firmly in thought. But to those that knew him, they could tell the King was in pain. Teeth clenched in agony, bracing his upper body through the table. His Hand, his prophetess, and his most trusted field commander, all of them saw the bevvy of maesters and healers trudge into his tent with fresh bandages. All heard the screams and muffled grunts of the King, followed by the blood and puss stained washcloths marked for burning afterwards. Stannis' leg wound was acting up again. Plunging him into mild fever and a quite non-mild pain.

Glancing over at Jon surreptitiously, Davos cleared his throat. "Your Grace. Perhaps it would be best if…"

"I know, Davos," the King replied gruffly. "Believe me, I know." It seemed as if he was using all his strength to keep from collapsing. "But I can't be a true King if I don't stand with my men on the field of battle. Robert did it. Rhaegar did it. I must."

"No one is doubting your bravery, your Grace," Jon interjected. He understood - hells, his wounds still ached, even the ones that happened months ago - but there was no point in fighting if one was unable to fight. "But you are the King. What purpose would it serve if you allowed yourself to be killed?"

Stannis said nothing. Letting the low firelight dance upon his face. The Baratheon brothers were driven, that much was clear. Stannis… he fought. Fully able and willing to engage in the hard slog, in acts some would say were mad. Not even the most debilitating of wound fevers would keep him from the object of his ambition.

"Lady Melisandre," he finally said. "Have you seen any visions in your flames that can give me guidance?"

The Red Woman blinked, the red of her irises shimmering from the fire. She had seen an image in the flames. An image clearer than the daytime sun, but one that she could not share. "You must ride on the battlefield, my Promised Prince." Both Jon and Davos opened their mouths to retort, but her next words cut them off. "But if you draw your sword upon the first clash of steel, you will lose." She looked up, upon the trusting look of Stannis, the resigned belief of Davos… and the skepticism of Jon Stark.

Sighing, swayed by her definitive answer, Stannis made his decision. "I will stay with Lord Selmy's reserve cavalry, guarding our southern flank." Around seven hundred men, the cavalry muscle for many a Stormlands army. "Lord Stark."

Jon looked up. "Yes, your Grace."

"If I cannot fight, I wish to leave command of the main army to you. Four great clashes have earned you my trust." Castle Black, Hardhome, Ramsay's Raid, and Winterfell. "I would be honored for you to lead our army on the morrow."

Jaw dropping slightly, Jon composed himself enough to bow. "The honor is mine, your Grace."

"Good." Motioning for two of his personal guards, Stannis slung his arms around both of their shoulders. Allowing them to prop up his aching leg. "Get some sleep, my Lords. We'll need it upon first light." Gritting his teeth, the King made his way out.

"The King has excellent advice." Davos clasped Jon's shoulder. "Don't brood for too long, Jon." With a chuckle, the Onion Knight followed Stannis.

Now, it was just him and Melisandre. "That wasn't the vision that you saw, correct?" Jon could feel the red gaze bore into him. "You lied to the King."

There was no hesitation from the Red Priestess. "Yes." The look of the shadowlands close to the edge of the known world... intimidating to most, but not to him. A perk of the 'bastard armor.'

"What… what did you really see in your fire?" Despite his instincts, Jon wanted to know.

Jon kept his hands on the tabletop as she circled around the counter to him, "For a long while my visions only contained King Stannis… but ever since we found you at Castle Black, it's been plenty of you instead."

Slowly, Jon regarded her as she drew close, "What do you mean?"

Melisandre pressed her front against Jon's arm, "You… are the one I see." Her hands snaked over his forearm, her chin resting on his shoulder. "I see you winning all these battles. Not Stannis."

"Me?"

"You," she whispered. Drawing as close to him as she could.

"Like what?" he frowned, ignoring her advances. He resisted the urge to shove her to the ground, instead he slowly retreated from her. Moving next to the table until he was on the other side away from her.

Slightly pouting, Melisandre replied, "When I look into the flames, it's you I see standing over the corpses. Having won the battle, sword raised high, cheering with your men."

"What battle? When?"

"I don't know when but it's in the snow," she answered with wide eyes, as if she's truly telling the future.

"The snow? A great battle in the snow?"

She nodded, "Yes. You will be victorious. Not Stannis. He is the weaker man now."

Jon began to question the woman, how could she sing Stannis' praises for so many years to then shed him? As far as he knew, Melisandre was Stannis' biggest supporter aside from Ser Davos. Why would she turns to him now for no apparent reason? Other than those supposed 'visions' she sees in the flames?

"How do you know all this for sure?" Jon asked, putting his hands on his hips. Then gesturing at her, "How can I truly believe a word you say? Why does your word mean a damn thing to me? How can you honestly think I can just believe you? When you speak of King Stannis this way, all I want is for you to leave."

Curiously, the Red Woman slowly cocked her head to the side, unmoved by his words. Making Jon feel uncomfortable with her gaze. She lays her hands on the table, then leans forward, "What if I could show you?"

Jon scoffed, "Show me what? A vision in the flames?" He spoke, filling his voice with mockery.

Her wide smirk unnerved Jon, and even further with her reply, "I can show you." Without waiting for his reply, she shifted over to a nearby brazier, motioning for Jon to come closer. Hesitant at first, eventually he forced his legs to move. He stopped mere feet from the fire, with Melisandre standing directly above it. The flames licked her cheeks, sticking to her face. She beckoned Jon closer still, and he hesitated yet again.

"You can't see from all the way over there," Melisandre laughed. When Jon still didn't move, she reached over and took his hand, pulling him over. When the warmth of the flames heated his face, his expression molded to surprise. He didn't see anything immediately, and he'd looked into many different fires many different times. Yet this became different when the flames started to appear like a picture or perhaps a painting. Not a clear one, it was muddled and dirty though very much visible.

Melisandre's hand snaked up his back, she whispered to him, "What do you see?"

A battlefield, thousands of men fought each other. Some looked familiar, yes, he saw his bannermen, direwolves on their shields. He didn't recognize the people his men were fighting, not like any army he'd ever seen, looking quite… foreign. Something in the distance arose, something he did recognize. A Dragon. A huge, full-grown dragon, scales black as night, shooting flames from its mouth. Roasting a bevy of his men, leaving just piles of bone and ash in its wake. The flames before him roared out near his face, making him rock back in retreat.

Though he kept his eyes on the fire, after that the image changed. A throne room, a space larger than any he'd ever seen, ceilings so tall light from the torches on the walls didn't reach all the way up. The throne looked very strange, carved out of some kind of rock. A person stood near it, with their back to him. In an instant the person turned towards him brandishing an ornate dagger of sorts, the light glinted off the blade, blinding him. The fire roared again, brighter and hotter than ever before.

Jon backed all the way up until his back hit the table, so hard some of the pieces on top fell over. The image burned into his eyes, even when he closed them he saw the dragon and the man with the knife. He rubbed his lids profusely, trying to rid himself of it. It just seemed so real.

A dragon? A fucking dragon? Burning his men? A sight he wouldn't soon forget and hoped he'd never have to actually witness it. And who was that man with the knife?

It all seemed so unreal, but it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like he was there.

"Seven hells," Jon gasped, breathing hard. He put his hand over his heart, feeling it beat hard, threatening to break out of his breastplate. The Red Woman started to move forward, opening her mouth to speak but Jon held his hand up to silence her. "Don't... Don't start. I'm going to get some rest. I don't want to see you there."

With that he stomped out of the tent, leaving Melisandre by her lonesome.

When he finally climbed into his makeshift bed, he desperately wanted to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come to him, his mind wouldn't stop wondering about what he'd seen in the flames. The image of that massive black beast torching his people ingrained to his mind. The numerous questions he had about the man with the blade. Watching his brazier in his tent, almost wishing he could put it out, but then he'd miss the warmth.

Eventually his mind tired and he slept.

* * *

Despite the dragons obeying her commands when she needed them, once in the air, Drogon wouldn't hear it. Daenerys watched Meereen fade away in the distance, pleading with her child to take her back to no avail. The dragons would come to her in a time of need, but still weren't the most obedient beasts. It wasn't as if she could just get off, being as though they were hundreds of feet in the air. So she got as comfortable as she could on Drogon's back, there she stayed.

Sometime later Rhaegal and Viserion broke off from formation. Daenerys assumed they became hungry. She thoughts confirmed as Drogon began to descend.

They landed on a hill in a wide open grassy field, with slight mountains in the distance. Dany slide off as soon as she could, desperate to feel the ground beneath her feet after hours in the air. Her legs buckled after not using them for a while, she stumbled into the knee high grass. When she arose again, Drogon grumbled louded, blowing smoke out of his lungs. Before Dany could blink, Drogon opened up his wings. Bellowing air downward as he jutted into the air, taking off in a moments notice. Daenerys was nearly knocked off her feet.

She called after her child, "Drogon!" The thought of being left in by herself was too pleasant. But Drogon didn't seem to want to listen, he kept on climbing, not even glancing back at his mother. Nonetheless, Dany yelled out again, "Come back!" Still her words falling on deft ears.

So there she stood, in total disbelief. That her child would so blatantly abandon their mother. Feeling hunger rise up in her own self, she had nothing else to do but start walking. She did so until her feet felt as they began to bleed. Her flimsy footwear wore away long before now, along with her dress, the whiteness turned mostly to the color of ash. Her hair had been braided so neatly before, the wind had whipped it much looser, all the soot made it look gray.

Eventually she heard the ground rumble. It continued to rumble until it got louder and louder, her head snapping all around trying to ascertain which direction they were coming from. Though she didn't have to search for long, a sizeable calvary of horsemen crested a hill near her. Once they got closer, she couldn't help but recognize that they were Dothraki. The riding leathers and long braids weren't hard to spot.

They circled her in the same path of the already trampled ground. Her capture imminent.

Dany found herself wishing she'd been dropped off at the Slaver Master's doorstep.

* * *

Warmth had returned to the northernmost point of the Riverlands. Large and powerful gusts of warm air from the Narrow Sea, broiling the southernmost belt from Maidenpool to Seagard with an unseasonable heat wave - a welcome respite from the coldest of autumns that threatened to further ravage the already battered land.

However, in reaches close to the mouth of the River Trident, the warmth barely reached. The northern chill still predominated. Soldiers wrapped themselves in thick wool. Campfires burned throughout the night. But the warmth did reach the lands of House Frey in one manner.

The mud. Oceans of mud. The melting autumn snows left much of the ground waterlogged. Pockets of woodland interspersed with bare grasslands and uneven, rocky terrain. It made for a hard slog. Favoring a defender, but neither true Baratheon King nor the Kingslayer was a defender on that day. For Stannis Baratheon, the foe upon the field had to be annihilated in order to open the Riverlands to him. For Jaime Lannister, his host outnumbered the usurper King's - if he was to end the war to bring peace to King's Landing, he would need to seek Stannis out and crush him.

Thus, there would be no retreat. No holding back. Both sides would be hitting their enemy head on. And all knew it.

"I'm getting a sense of history repeating itself, my Lords," Jaime Lannister breathed. He sat astride his best horse, a cream-colored stallion bred outside Crakehall. Much like the Whispering Wood, but with him only an observer. "Our massive forces, clashing with the northerners in the Riverlands."

Roland Crakehall snorted. "That was against Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. This… Jon Snow is but a bastard." No one recognized his legitimacy, since no one recognized Stannis as a true King.

"Tread lightly, my Lord," stated Bronn flatly, always willing to show up his betters. "Met many a bastard, and a lot show better promise than there trueborn relatives."

The force of the Westerlands were battle-hardened veterans. Adeptly generaled, they arranged themselves in their standard assault formation. Four divisions abreast of each other, north to south. To the north - better suited to the more waterlogged ground - rested the lighter shields of the Crownlands lords under Lord Renfred Rykker. In the center were the Lannister forces themselves, lion banners proudly waving as the Kingslayer's own uncle Tygett rallied them. And bringing up the south were the heavy phalanges of houses Westerling, Lefford, Swyft, and Marbrand, divided into two divisions, one under Lord Addam Marbrand and the other under Lord Leo Lefford.

In reserve were the Riverlander forces and a detachment of House Crakehall heavy cavalry, ready to exploit any advantage gained or patch in any defect. At the direction of the Kingslayer, the heralds blew their horns, banners unfurled and men crashing their shields together.

While Jaime and Bronn sat atop their horses, staring across the field at their opponent. Without a word, Crakehall moved off to trot around his men. Stannis' forces looked formidable, even from a distance.

"How you feelin'? Your balls shrinking?" Bronn laughed, slapping Jaime on the back.

"Shut up," Jaime jeered, shaking his head. "I don't need you jesting right now."

"Oh? Does Stannis have you shaking in your boots, aye?" Bronn smirked, pointing across the field. "We outnumber them. Most of their army is from the North, they don't know how to fight up here. Roose got fucked because he and the Northern army were totally driven by their hatred for each other, he was driven into a trap because he was blinded by his need to destroy Jon Snow. Stannis fed on that… now the Boltons are no more."

Jaime half-laughed, "How does that speak well for us?"

"We won't be duped such as that," Bronn said as if it was obvious. "I won't let you fuck up and die because you still owe me my goddamn castle."

Jaime frowned and began to say, "A Lannister always-"

"Don't," Bronn sighed, holding his finger in the air. "Don't fucking say it."

Opposite, men parted by as the Lord of Winterfell walked to the van on foot, his faithful sworn sword Breinne of Tarth by his side. Stark direwolf emblazoned on his cuirass and gorget. No horse for him, no rearguard for him. Jon fought with his bannermen, and soldiers from the Reach to the True North loved him for it.

"No snow," he said softly, only Brienne hearing it. "Does not bode well."

"The mud will slow us down, my Lord. But it will slow them down further."

"Such is true." Jon did not want Brienne to know of what Melisandre told him, of the battle in the snow. Of the only victory preordained being such. "Stay close to your banners, men!" he announced rather matter of factly. "I don't need to tell you what to do today. Just know, these are one of the three fucks that did the Red Wedding." A hiss arose from the northerners, soon spreading to all of them. "We killed the fucking Boltons, and we will kill the fucking Freys. But today, we kill the fucking Lannisters!"

"The North Remembers!" boomed the army, weapons high in the air as they snarled their bloodlust.

The forces of the Stag King were arranged in a single block. Jon, seeing the vast line of the Kingslayer's army strung along the opposing ridgeline, decided to keep his men together and close to their banners - given the mud and broken terrain, the flanks were guarded well. Smalljon Umber commanded the right guard of Umber, Manderly, and Cerwyn forces, Jon personally commanded the center of the Free Folk and remaining Northerners, while Aemon Estermont had the left of Stormlands infantry. The few northern horse under Larence Hornwood screened the right flank, while Arstan Selmy guarded the King with the remaining horse further south.

"And so it begins, my Lord," Brienne murmured as they saw the glittering line of the pride of the Westerlands starting their advance.

"Aye, it does," Jon replied. "Men! Forward!"

"Nock!" yelled Karsi, her own Free Folk bowmen joined by the northerners and stormlanders. "Loose!" A wave of arrows erupted into the air, arcing precipitously before making their journey of death to spill first blood upon the field. The deadly projectiles exploited chinks and exposed flesh… soon the screams of men joined the din, arrows slamming into limbs and torsos, spraying blood over the soggy ground. Soldiers collapsed, some loud and hoarse while others shockingly still. All ignored by their comrades as the advance took an almost crazed quality.

The first to clash were, ironically, the heaviest forces anchoring the south. While weighed down their arms and armor, the westerlands phalanx and the stormlands men-at-arms benefitted from far dryer ground. Arrows not as much a nuisance, the men were hungry to settle their longtime rivalry and set upon the other with an unparalleled ferocity. Swords hacking, spears thrusting, blood and intestines spilled upon the dead grass as corpses began to pile up. Phalanx advancing while the opposing men-at-arms wheeled to try and flank their foes.

Bogged down by the mud, the north and center joined a full ten minutes later. Spearpoints became slick with gore as the two middle clusters of hoplites crashed into each other. Lannister men colliding with former men of House Bolton - their shields now painted with snarling Stark direwolves - the center descending into a vicious wrestling contest where each force tried to steamroll the other. Lannister crossbowmen unloading their bolts at point blank range while the lighter infantry of House Glover and the mountain clans tried to break the stalemate.

To the north a disorganized mess broke out. Tough as their inhospitable lands, Smalljon Umber's men proved the steadier in the ensuing bloody melee. Light leathers and mail adept to the thick mud, they held their ground against repeated attacks and joined with Lord Hornwood's light cavalry to push them back in a veritable slaughterhouse. Rykker lost one of his senior bannermen, Osmund Kettleblack, in this early clash. Only fortitude and superiority in armor prevented a complete rout.

At the thick of the fighting was Jon. Immersed in the carnage, the same ferocity that made him a legend in the north was on full display. Valyrian steel cut through shields and plate. Decapitating and disemboweling as he single-handedly led a furious assault to break through the Lannister phalanx. A sword slashed against his chest but Jon shrugged it off with a snarl, men of the Westerlands getting flashbacks of the Young Wolf defeating them time and time again upon this same kingdom. Only this time something far worse. A bastard, fully trained in the wilding fightins style and bled through years of torment, wolf roared out with an almost dragon-like fury - his sworn bodyguard Brienne of Tarth just as frenzied to protect him as they both hauled a Lannister soldier out of the shield wall. Northern troops pouring through the breach as Tygett Lannister was forced to withdraw. Unable to find any weak spots of their own to probe.

In the Lannister command tent, the dispatch riders were running back and forth, Jaime and Roland Crakehall barking orders like mad to manage what order was left within the battle. Every instinct within the golden lion of Casterly Rock was yelling within him to join the battle as Jon Snow had - but every word of sense kept him out. Only luck had kept his left-handed swordsmanship from killing him in Dorne, and House Lannister would not be served by its heir dying upon the field.

"Where is Mallister?!" Roland Crakehall hissed. Without him, the Northern-led forces outnumbered the Westerlanders, and Jaime was hesitant to commit his cavalry reserve against Jon Snow after learning what happened at Winterfell.

"Terrain is muddy," Jaime reasoned. "Perhaps they're bogged down."

Crakehall shook his head. "Too obvious. Mallister was always a lazy fucker…"

But just as he complained, one of the dispatch riders finally arrived, caked in mud. "Lord Jaime, Lord Roland." He pulled his horse to them, bowing in the saddle. "Lord Mallister informed me to tell you that he's not advancing."

"What!" Jaime was stunned, Crakehall furious, while Bronn just shook his head, not surprised. "That lazy cunt disobeyed a direct order?!"

"He stated that he's worried about Stannis outflanking him." The Stag King was absent from the field - if he had some alternate force ready to strike… It was just like something Stannis would do. "Says he's holding in place."

Bronn whistled. "He's planning to switch sides if ya' lose. Mark my words. Riverlanders hate House Lannister, and House Frey is a joke to them."

Crakehall just growled. "I doubt Jason Mallister has the intelligence to do anything but wipe his ass." Jaime didn't care as to motivation. Without the extra reserves he did not trust his Westermen to overcome whatever Stannis or Jon Snow came up with.

"Lord Jaime!" Up rode Ser Alyn Stackspear, Jaime's aide-de-camp. "Stannis! Stannis is on the field!"

"But Qyburn's birds said he was wounded?" Confused, Jaime lifted his spyglass, trying to spot the usurper King. "Where the fuck is he?"

"There!" Bronn pointed across the field, far to the southeast. "He's on the flanks with their cavalry reserve, cowardly fucker." The former sellsword spat on the ground. "I've fought with a festering chest wound and didn't complain a fuckin' damn."

Quickly, Jaime found the banners of the Stag King. Surrounded by about a thousand stormlands horsemen of various houses. Fully separated from the main host under Jon Snow by at least a mile of uneven ground. Not attempting to intercept the main army… just, in reserve.  _The opportunity to end this war right then and there._

"My Lord." Crakehall must have thought on similar lines. "Send me and my mounted knights. I'll slay Stannis and the War of the Five Kings ends right now!"

"Don't do it," Bronn warned. "They sent a trap for that Bolton cunt. They'll set a trap for your knights as well."

Running his good hand through his coiffed blonde hair, Jaime was faced with the decision of leadership. Should he be bold, or should he be cautious. Father would have known what to do…

 _Father isn't here._  It was up to him to make the decisions. Looking back at the history of his father's campaigns… it was boldness that won out. Always. "Go," Jaime told Crakehall. "Bring me Stannis alive." He would treat with Jon Stark once the Stag King was captured, hopefully negotiate a peace between Tommen and House Stark - his youngest was innocent in the murder of Lord Eddard.

Grinning, Crakehall motioned to his son Lyle. "House Crakehall! Form up!"

* * *

"Hold the line!" Gripping Longclaw with both hands, Jon brought it down with a furious snarl. Splintering the iron-bordered shield in two and leaving the trooper a bloody mess. "Keep by the banners!" So used to fighting in the North, Jon kept an eye on his men and on Lady Brienne, copying their skills in assaulting the heavily armored Westerlands hoplites. Deflecting a sword blow, Jon barrelled directly into the man's center mass, sending him into the ground. Grabbing another by the scruff of his woolen gambeson, Jon threw him into the waiting Oathkeeper.

All around him, the stench of death coated him in an unbearable vapor. Each spurt of blood and voiding of bowels adding to the fetid poison clouding the very air of the battlefield. Only the burning desire for vengeance on each side and the iron will of their commanders kept them going. Smalljon Umber breaking skulls with his bare hands, Tormund hacking with his axes despite three crossbow bolts protruding from his chest, Brienne ripping through armor as blood stained her blonde hair, and Jon fighting like a man possessed. To the smallfolk, their Lords fighting with them kept their spirits up against the seemingly impenetrable phalanx.

The echoing clatter of hooves boomed over all as house Crakehall began their thunderous charge. Lances depressed in a single line, sunlight glinting off the shiny plate armor. Led personally by the towering form of the Strongboar, Ser Lyle Crakehall, the reserve crested the last hill between them and their objective to panic from the milling stormlanders. Gripping the reins of his steed tightly, King Stannis was ever mindful of the Lady Melisandre's words. Nevertheless, if he couldn't fight then he could certainly general.

His barked commands soon became reality, the wildling archers raining down a fusillade of steel-tipped arrows upon the charging westermen. Arstan Selmy gathered his outnumbered knights into a countercharge. Brown grass and clumps of dirt kicked into a cloud of dust as the two horse charged towards each other.

The line rippled, descending into madness. Lances ran through men, bodies thrown back as the screams of dead horses brought terror to man and beast alike. Winter chill - once reviled - was begged for after mere seconds to clear the stench, mere minutes passing before the Stormlanders prayed for reprieve after the second line of Crakehall cavalry slammed into them. Roland Crakehall himself leading a charge to break through and capture Stannis. Hacking through the guarding knights, he came within yards before Arstan Selmy beat him back with his own personal guard.

At first the sound of booming horns from the far south attracted a rather confused response. The second Crakehall charge having descended into the same furious melee as befalling the entire battlefield, it took moments before a muted shimmer paused all but the most imminent fighting - many a knight lifting their visors and searching wherever they could for the source of the horns.

Galloping at the fastest speeds, the trout banner of House Tully rippled in the high winds as the horsemen charged forth towards the Lannisters. At the van was the aged but still spry Brynden the Blackfish, leading his men from the front. All were mounted, ditching coherence and strength for speed. A decision that could have spelled doom, but under the current circumstances proved to be a brilliant move by the Blackfish. For they had arrived just as the battle was in the balance.

Using the cover of the thick woods as a shield from Crown scouts, the disorganized cavalry charge was actually perfectly suited to weaving through the underbrush. The Blackfish divided them into two columns, the first he led personally at the mass of knights battling each other over the Stag King. Lances piercing mail and plate, horses and men toppling over in broken piles of bone, flesh, and metal from the impact of the hundreds of riverlanders. Shouting over the din, Stannis guided the reinvigorated stormlanders to double back - assaulting the Crakehall knights head on. With the first swing of the Blackfish's sword, the balance decisively shifted in the Stag King's favor - a small smile on his face as yet another battle proved the Lady Melisandre right.

Revenge for Blackwater Bay was sweet indeed.

Wheeling around the three-sided cavalry battle, the second prong charged directly for the main Lannister flank. Mounts taking advantage of the drying ground to crash into the flank guards of House Lefford. Built for strength and momentum, the Westerlands phalanx was notoriously inflexible. A fact taken advantage of by Robb Stark at the Whispering Wood. A fact Jon exploited to keep his lighter command going. And a fact exploited by Brynden Tully as his bannermen brought lance and mace into the soft underbelly of the royal phalanx.

What followed was a slaughter. Spotting the charging Riverlanders, Jon grabbed a Stark banner of a dying boy and raised it in the air. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!" he bellowed, direwolf fluttering in the sun as Longclaw caved in a westerlander's skull. Brienne beside him, armor dented and smeared with blood as she added Oathkeeper to the fray.

The resulting cry was deafening. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!" Jolted with a newfound energy, the northerners threw themselves at their enemy. Greatsword tasting Lannister blood, Smalljon Umber led the northernmost house at the crack Lannisport battalions on the far north of the enemy flank, joined by the mermen of White Harbor. Glover and Cerwyn men held the center, while the final line of wilding shock troops snarled their fearsome battlecries for the join between the royal center and left.

Inadvertently, Jon and Tormund - fighting near alongside - had discovered the Lannister weakness. Unlike their tightly bunched forces, the Lannisters had divided up their legions. Creating gaps the frenzied wildings exploited. To the boys of the westerlands, wildings were the stuff of nightmares. Fur-clad savages hacking and killing everyone in sight, Karsi raining volley after volley of arrows while the Riverlands horse gutted their own bowmen.

When the mighty Wun Wun emerged from his position as the final reserve, decapitating dozens with each swing of the massive log he hefted, the phalanx broke.

Attempting to disengage, furiously shouting commands, suddenly Roland Crakehall felt his horse give way, javelin slamming into its side. Neighing pained bleats as Crakehall pushed himself up off the ground - realizing with a wince that the proud horse was dying. A swift slice of his blade gave the beast some mercy.

"Father!" Lyle rode up, finding the Lord of Crakehall gathering around a hundred dismounted knights for a final stand. "I've rallied the remaining horses. We can charge them!"

Roland shook his head, looking upon his large, strapping son. A noble warrior to continue his line. "Don't be a fucking fool, my son. They outnumber us and you know it." Horns blaring in the distance, he knew that they were readying a charge of their own. "Get out of here, Lyle!"

"Get on my horse, then!" Lyle was not about to let his father die on the field of battle. "I won't let you die here!"

"Gods forbid that I retreat one step. I will either win the battle as a Lord of the Westerlands, or die as one." He reached up, patting Lyle on the leg and handing him his sword. The mighty blade Tusk, proclaimed to be one tenth Valyrian steel. "Take this and get out of here. Save our house." Tears in his eyes - a rarity on the great Strongboar of Crakehall - Ser Lyle handed his father his own blade and rode off. Yelling at the other remaining mounted knights to join him. Fleeing south down the Kingsroad.

Looking upon his remaining men, Lord Roland Crakehall held his sword aloft, banners proud as the oncoming horde of Tully and Selmy horsemen bared down upon them in a single shimmering wave.  _None so fierce!_

To the north, the phalanx had collapsed. Several battalions of Houses Westerling and Lefford fought like wildcats, engaging a delaying action so that the savaged main body could retreat in good order… in practice, it was more a rout in some semblance of order. Many ditched their steel plate and their shields, giving them far more speed in squelching through the mud and the muck towards the safety of the Kingsroad.

Battered, bloodied, and exhausted, the northerners and stormlanders did not give chase. In spite of their King's frustrated commands, the fresh Tully reinforcements were too tired and small in number to do anything but collapse on whatever dry ground there was. Still by his banners, Jon refused to open up his men to a potential Frey envelopment. Instead, continued volleys from their archers kept them fleeing while the Lords reformed their men and guided them towards the final intact enemy unit on the far hills.

"Seven fucking hells," breathed Bronn. He had seen battle before - and was even quite cynical before that - but the marching Lannister host had looked close to invincible. Pessimist that he was, even he couldn't comprehend how they lost.  _Brynden the Blackfish, you lucky fucking cunt._  House Tully had gotten its revenge, alright.

"Get back in the fight you cowards!" Jaime yelled, more out of desperation than actual malice. He made to grab a trooper, armor half stripped and shield nowhere to be found, only thing in his hand being a spear and a sword on his belt. The boy looked at his liege lord with wide, fearful eyes, but kept running. "Some one form up and counterattack!"

Bronn slapped Jaime on the cheek. "We fucking lost, Lannister!"

"There's still time. Send a raven to Walder Frey…"

"Walder fucking Frey won't save us! Our only hope is to get out and hope to the fucking gods that Jon Snow hates Frey more than us!"

Image of Cersei and Tommen's heads on a spike forefront,Jaime nevertheless was forced to agree with the former sellsword's assessment. "Sound full retreat!" he told his herald. "We regroup near the Ruby Ford!" Several trumpeters began to give the orders, dispatch riders racing to wherever the commanding Lords were as the entire Lannister command tent was set to the torch.

Clad in a perfectly polished plate and mail armor, Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard cut a completely different pose from Jon - the latter's simple northern leathers drenched in mud and blood. Much of it not his own, a fact worthy of bragging about had Jon been inclined to do so. Behind Jon, the Northern host of mostly Umbers and Manderlys halted. Grizzled veterans of the war with the Riverlands face to face with the fresh bannermen of their former allies. Pledged to fight for the Lannister King.

Finding the Warden of the North on foot, Mallister took his squire's hand and dismounted his steed. Allowing his boots to squelch in the mud when not necessary. A legitimate act of humility, Jon acknowledged. Brienne beside him, Jon stepped beyond his men to approach the Riverlord. One highborn to another. Eagle met Direwolf, silence stretching between them.

But to Jon's surprise, Mallister bowed slightly. "My Lord Stark, House Mallister offers you congratulations in defeating the lion."

Jon blinked, sensing the sincerity in the Riverlord's tone. A quick glance was spared to Brienne for confirmation. Daughter of the Lord of Tarth, she nodded imperceptibly, knowing what Jon sought of her. Giving a bow of his own, Jon wiped a smear of blood from his forehead. "Would have been harder had your men joined the battle."

A wry grin formed on Mallister's face. "I suppose so." He motioned to his bannermen. "Lord Stark, we here all fought for your brother. Our swords tasted lion blood in the past, and I seek an audience with King Stannis so that we may taste it again." Essentially equals, Mallister nevertheless confessed to his lower position by extending his arm. Offering it to Jon to take.

Unable to stop the grin himself, Jon reached out to take the proffered hand. Behind and in front, cheers rang out from the two armies. Heralding the end to the battle in favor of the Stag and Direwolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Big shoutouts to Longclaw here people, as this being a battle chapter, he did a whole lot of this one. I did some of the other sections but he did much of this. All sorts of credit to him and all he does. As you all just read, it was fucking awesome.
> 
> The Melisandre scene was a cool one to write, it kinda evolved as it came off the fingertips. I thought it ended up pretty cool. What y'all think of what Jon saw? Hmm? I wonder. Was it the past? Or maybe the future?
> 
> Longclaw: The battle was based on the Battle of Bosworth Field. Thought it really fit well.
> 
> Kudos to BRuh for the Jon/Mel scene. Lots of big things going on there. Interpret it how you will ;)
> 
> Let us know what y'all thought in a comment.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	14. Wrath of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: The countdown to the big moment is coming, and we're at a pretty big moment right here!
> 
> I've been thinking of a new story idea, one for a series of stories rather. I'd like to do a Jonerys tale where Jon grows up a Prince, but the story begins before Jon and Dany in an alternate life of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Where it isn't Robert that rebels against the Targaryens, but Rhaegar rebelling against Aerys after marrying Lyanna. Would all of you be interested in such a story?
> 
> BRuh4: This is a really special chapter, one of the ones we had highlighted really early into the process of starting this. We're finally getting into the bigger chapters. It's taken a while, but we're finally here. The best part is after this it's only going to get wilder.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Follow, fav, and review!

For longer than she knew, her whole existence revolved around the ship. Waking up, eating what small food they allowed her, walk around the boat, go back to sleep then repeat. Her body ached for action, but nothing was around she could punch or stab. Especially after she found some sacks of wheat, and then stabbed Needle through several of them, the captain was furious. Resulting in the subsequent barring of her from swinging her sword around, or else be thrown overboard. Without her sword, she became merely bored for the remainder of the journey.

Eventually, after what felt like years, the ship arrived at White Harbor. Before the ship even dock she knew she was hope. All the way in the cabin, she could smell it. Mostly because the aromas that she'd encountered recently had been sweat and seawater. The North doesn't smell like either one of those things. The North smelled like  _home_.

As fast as her feet would carry her, she bolted to the top deck. Sure enough, when she reached the bow, White Harbor lay just in front of her.

Arya had little in the way of possessions, just Needle, a small bag of silver, and clothes on her back. So as soon as the ship docked she was the first off.

The feeling was indescribable, being in the North again so being away for so long. Ever since that fateful day she left with her father and Sansa. So many years ago now, she was but a girl then, she's supposed to be woman now. Parts of her feel older now, yet being back home makes the little want to come back out. Though she pushes that down, she's not that person anymore.

She's changed.

Calm and collected, she strolled through the docks, many of the crew left with her, and she passed some Manderly bannermen carrying tridents. She half expected someone to recognize her, yet walking around totally unnoticed was probably better. If she was recognized, likely the whole north would find out. Which wasn't what she wanted… yet.

Finally, she had learned some news from the North on the boat. How recent, she didn't know, a few of the crew were from White Harbor and she'd heard about the Boltons controlling Winterfell. But that was as of those men leaving White Harbor, about a month or so ago. Much had changed since then.

As she strutted towards town, she truly realize the great drop in temperature. Even though it wasn't full blown winter yet, it was still quite cold. Much colder than Braavos, the rags she wore wouldn't suffice for long. Even as she walked, her teeth began to chatter.

The sound of voices lead her to the plaza in the dead center of New Castle, coming from what appeared to be a tavern. Warm yellow light peered through the closed shutters and under the wooden door. Just the sight heated her bones.

But what caught her eye was what lay directly before her. A fountain. She'd seen many of these in Braavos so they weren't foreign to her. Yet she didn't ever expect to see one in the North, not ever. She remembered from her history lessons with Old Nan that White Harbor is the only port in the North, aside from Eastwatch. But New Castle has many different types of people come through often, from far and different lands, it didn't seem impossible for one of those people to be able to craft a magnificent sight such as this fountain.

It truly was beautiful. The pool of water surrounded a merman, holding his trident high above his head. How they managed to get water to shoot out of his mouth, she didn't know. Arya stared at it until she began to shiver, signaling it was time to get warm. Nearly running to the tavern, she approached. Once inside, a small smile came to her face, the sight of a full house, many people gathered together, merrymaking. Every table was full, but one chair remained at the bar. She took the stool there.

The inkeep came up to her from behind the bar and frowned, not expecting to see a girl of her age. "What are you doing in here, little lady?"

Arya cocked her head to the side and replied, "I'm not a lady."

He laughed, a bright smile coming to countenance, "Sounds like something mine own daughter would say, perhaps you two would be friends."

Arya smirked, "Perhaps."

Suddenly, the door to the tavern swung open, a breathless man racing in. "Easy lad," said the innkeeper. "What's the matter?"

"King… Kingslayer," the man breathed, hacking between breaths. "The Kingslayer…"

The entire inn fell silent. Arya as well, staring at the man.  _What… what about the Kingslayer?_  Dread coursed through her - were the Lannisters actually coming north?

Finally, the man caught his breath. "King Stannis and Lord Jon annihilated the Kingslayer's army at the Muddy Hill! The Twins are under siege and the Lannisters have abandoned the Riverlands!"

It was barely a moment before the entire tavern erupted into cheers. Drunken and not so drunken hollars echoing loudly within the walls, mugs of ale hoisted in the air. While reactions to the Battle of Winterfell were confused and muted - no one liking when Northerners fought Northerners - the defeat of the hated Lannisters and the soon to be defeat of the blood-sucking Freys united the Northmen unlike any other.

"The Red Wedding is avenged!"

"Fuck the Lannisters and their incest spawn!"

"All hail Jon Stark! Warden of the North!" That drew the most cheers, nearly every patron howling to the ceilings in their best imitation of a howl of a direwolf.

"WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF!"

But for Arya… she sat at the counter, shock still, her mouth hung open.  _Jon…_  As in her brother Jon?  _Warden of the North? Jon Stark?!_  So many questions ran through her head, what in seven hells had happened while she was gone?

"Not 'appy, young lass?" She was brought out of her shock by the tavern owner, smiling down at her with a jolly expression. "Join the celebration!"

"Who is Jon Stark?"

The proprieter gave her a queer look. "'Ave ya been in a cave for the last year, lass?"

"No, Braavos." Arya pouted, hoping to retain some of her childhood innocence. "Please, ser, tell me. I thought the Boltons ruled Winterfell."

He chuckled. "Roose and Ramsay Bolton are dead, lass. Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow came down from Castle Black with knights and wildings and retook Winterfell. Stannis even legitimized him, and he's down in the Riverlands avenging the North." A fat hand smacked the table. "Eddard Stark's daughter and son now rule Winterfell in the lad's absence, and it's about time too. Nothin's right in the world lest a Stark sits in that castle, if I do say so mi'self."

Arya's breath hitched, her entire body a tempest of emotions. Shock. Confusion. Anger. Relief. Joy. Excitement…

Just a few minutes ago, her plan had been to gather some supplies, travel to Winterfell and kill Roose Bolton and his son. Now… Now she didn't know what to do. She could go home, Winterfell. She'd just learned that Sansa must be there, and one of her other brothers? That could either be Bran or Rickon.  _But Jon's not there, Jon is at the Twins._  She very much wanted to see her favorite brother again.

So the Twins it is, maybe she start crossing off a few names while she's there.

* * *

"Come out! Come out, Lord Frey!" Splayed out on several Bolton crosses, the captured scouts of House Frey were pissing themselves as Smalljon Umber taunted the men defending the western keep of the Twins. Walder Frey was likely on the eastern side, but the Lord of Last Hearth wasn't keen on taking the skiff to the other side where the Manderleys and Mallisters completed the siege. "We'll give you an honorable death, head from body. Better than my father got from you!"  _Ya' wrinkled old cunt._

"I don't think the southern fucker is gettin' the message, southerner," Tormund growled, punching the side of one of the prisoners. Letting his cry of pain be heard from the gatehouse - they were a bit away, out of crossbow range.

Smalljon glared. "I ain't no southerner, wildling," he mumbled.

"Yer south of da wall, so a southern kneeler." The two of them despised each other, but… there was an odd respect. Both blunt and tough, fierce as foes, but even fiercer as allies. "Hear that, southern kneeling fuck!" Tormund yelled at the gatehouse. "Ya' want a good death, surrender now. Otherwise we give ya to the Thenns!" The Free Folk leader motioned for someone.

A hulking Thenn warrior, face pockmarked with decorative mutilations, strode forth. Face contorted in a malevolent grin. Looking over each of the tied up men. "Mmmmm…" He licked his lips. Voice bellowing for the benefit of the watching Freys. "These lads are good eatin!"

One of the prisoners fainted, while the rest developed a growing stain in their trousers. Most yellow liquid, but for one it was the other form of human waste. "This is disturbing, even for me," Smalljon whispered to Tormund. "We're delving into shit even the Boltons wouldn't touch."

"Don't tell me, I fuckin' hate Thenns," Tormund hissed back. "But hey, this shit works. If I'm terrified, a bunch of pussy southerners are shittin' their pants up there."

The Thenn was clearly having fun. "Hear that, you fucking cunts! Which one of these men should I eat first?!"

Only about two seconds later, an arrow slammed into the Thenn's chest. Sending him sprawling back. "Fuck you! Cannibal wildling motherfucker!" came the cry from atop the Frey battlements.

Before the archers could return fire, the Thenn leapt up. Arrow not having hit anything vital, he snapped off the shaft, rage in his eyes. "So that's how ya want to play?! Huh?!" Grabbing his axe, he let it swing.

"AAAAAHHHHH!" One of the prisoners started screaming his lungs out, leg cleaved clean off. Blood gushing from the wound onto the muddy ground below. None of the northerners, Rivermen engineers, or Free Folk batted an eye - the man was caught raping a local smallfolk woman and sentenced to death by Lord Stark. Turns out, the Warden of the North had more on his mind than executing a lowly Frey prisoner, so Tormund and Smalljon brought him here for their own purposes.  _Dead is fuckin' dead._

The rest of the Thenns cheered as the warrior lifted the leg, drinking some of the pouring blood. "We eat good tonight, boys!" More cheers.

"They aren't gonna surrender," Smalljon shrugged. "Well, at least they're pissin' themselves."

Listening to another of the catapults lob the severed heads of executed prisoners into the walls of the Twins, Jon let out a sigh. Such tactics disgusted him as his father's son, but Stannis had given him both the authority and an order to take the Twins by any means necessary. "Seven Hells, Devan," he muttered, stalking into his tent with Davos' son following.

"I know, my Lord. Sieges… they take a lot out of a man." He had been inside Storm's End, helping his father run weapons and food during Robert's Rebellion. It was not pretty.

"Two months, Devan! Two bloody months." Jon tossed another log on the fire, hoping it would ease away the bitter cold.  _At least the rains have passed._  Those had nearly killed off hundreds from dysentery and fever had they continued. "I know Stannis reclaimed Riverrun and the Lannisters are weak from our victory at Muddy Hill, but the longer Walder Frey holds out the worse our position." They had tried everything. Bribes, bombardment, intimidation… hells, a group of miners from the Stormlands had tried to tunnel under the walls of the Twins - nothing worked. Jon didn't wish for a full frontal assault and the bodies of his men it would require, but it was either that or wait another two months or longer for the Freys to starve. "That old fucker Walder is laughing at us right now!" He slammed his fist on the table, frustrated.

Suddenly, a page boy peeked inside the tent. "Mi'lord… a raven from Winterfell. They say it's your sister's seal."

"A raven? From Sansa?" Jon frowned, taking the scroll from the lad.

"Yes, Lord Stark," the boy nodded, before turning to leave.

Jon brushed his thumb of the sigil of his house before tearing it open to read the words. He recognized Sansa's intricate handwriting immediately, yet the cursive appeared hastily composed. The parchment seemingly ruffled, appearing as if the letter had come together rather rapidly. Once Jon's eyes scanned over it he knew why. His face contorted in surprise as he read. After he'd finished with it, he tossed it onto the table.

Devan came over, "What's it say?"

Jon didn't look at his squire, he only uttered, "Get me Howland, Tormund, and Smalljon." After Devan didn't move right away, Jon finally turned to him with a scowl on his face, "Now."

The young squire squeaked and bolted out of the tent.

* * *

Having the men that were requested brought to him, the Lord of Winterfell held up the scroll then passed to Howland to read. They gathered around the table in his tent, a hand-drawn map of the Twins on it.

"My sister Sansa sent me a raven," Jon explained. "Littlefinger wants to negotiate."

"I see," Howland replied, seeing the words for himself.

"What the fuck does that mean for us?" Smalljon snorted. "Who cares about that cunt?"

"He controls the Vale," Jon huffed. "We need his support. Sansa has spent ample time with him, she will be essential in acquiring his men."

"Why?" Tormund asked.

Jon's fists clenched. "He's in love with her."

"Ah," Howland nodded, all the pieces coming together in his head, ideas forming. "The letter also says that Littlefinger would be more…" He frowned, the word leaving him. Therefore his eyes snapped back to the raven scroll. "Open-minded, if we already had the Twins?"

"Correct," Jon sighed, crossing his arms. "Which means we can no longer wait Walder out. We need to take it."

"How in fucks name are supposed to do that?" Smalljon exhaled, then pointed his finger in the direction of the castle. "There are only two ways in, both gates, and both are barred. If we try ladders or a battering ram they'll pour oil or shoot arrows. We'll lose thousands."

"What if we hit them from both sides?" Tormund proposed, laying his hands on the table, then pointing to each side of the castle. "Could they hold both sides at the same time?"

"I don't know," Jon pursued his lips. "The main force is on this side. The men I sent across the river were only a few hundred, just to keep them from leaving or getting supplies." He shrugged. "Even if we sent more men, it's easier to defend than attack. He doesn't need many to properly man the defenses."

"If we are close to taking the castle, that fuck will probably demolish the bridge. Then we'll have lost all those men for fucking nothing."

Suddenly, Howland snapped his fingers as if he remembered something he'd been trying to recall for hours. He smirked, "I've got it."

"Care to share it with us?" Jon raised his eyebrows.

"I've got a plan, I mean," Howland said, then he looked to the map. "What if we can find a way in near the western side, get infiltrators inside the castle while the rest of the army launches an attack. The men sneaking in can cause some chaos inside, perhaps find Walder himself."

Jon went silent, stroking his lengthening beard, thinking on the Crannogmen's words, "That's certainly an idea."

"What about the rest of us outside, we'll be slaughtered," Smalljon scoffed, somewhat angrily.

"All that has to be done is something that looks like an attack. We already have siege towers prepared. Some men will be lost for sure," Howland replied solemnly. "But that will happen regardless. This way may be quicker than a full-on assault though."

"If you can get in," Tormund grumbled. "And that's a big if. We don't even know if there is a third way in."

"Every castle has hidden entrances. For a castle on the riverbank, they'll need some door for the servants to get water from the river." Jon said, widening his eyes.

"Allow me to send some of my men into the water, maybe they can find a way in for us," Howland said, turning to Jon. "They'll go at night, as to not be seen."

"Yes, send them immediately, this could work."

"At once, Lord Stark." Howland nodded, then left, leaving Jon with Smalljon and Tormund.

"I'll admit, Stark, I was hesitant to follow you. But I was foolish," Smalljon uttered, coming over to clasp his Liege Lord on the back. "I'm with you."

Smirking, Jon replied, "Appreciate the support."

"You'll have it," Smalljon chuckled. A few moments later he was halfway out of the tent, he turned back to say, "Hopefully, soon the Frey's will know they had much to fear. You. I got a feeling you'll be remembered for this. The Wrath of the North." With that, he was gone.

Tormund huffed, "I best find a barrel of ale to empty."

"Must you always get drunk before a battle?" Jon scoffed, shaking his head.

"You know I do," Tormund laughed, then strolled out.

With a sigh, Jon rested again the table eyes scanning over the map. Attempts were made to think it all through, overthinking led to doubt, unfortunately. His first real campaign without Stannis didn't come without the neverending doubt in himself though.

Somehow, a part of him said not to worry, he tried to listen.

* * *

"Where's the damn meal?!" Coughing, the old man smacked his palm on the table. "My stomach's fuckin' growlin' here!" The soldiers and smallfolk inhabiting the Twins might be on starvation rations two months into the siege, but he always had three square meals a day. He didn't eat much anyway, so it balanced out.  _I'll be damned if I end up one of those fat fucks._

Racing over to the table, slender to the borderline of scrawny underneath her ratty burlap dress, the servant girl carried a meat pie in both hands. "'Ere you are, mi'Lord." Steam rose from the crust, deliciously hot. The kitchen staff had the same rations as the soldiers… if they continued to please him.

Spearing his spoon into the gooey insides of his meat pie, Walder Frey ignored the aching creak in his bones. Savoring the taste, chewing softly. Easy on his ancient teeth. "What kind of meat is this?" He smacked his lips together. "Rather dry. Tastes like… cat."

The servant girl bowed her head. "We're running out of live animals, mi'Lord. Either this or salted meat."

Walder laughed, laughs suddenly turning into hacks. "Fuckin' hells. Damn cough." He looked at the girl. "Good job, I'd rather have cat than that damn salted leather." A wry grin crossed his face, hand cupping the girl's backside. "Perhaps I'll have a reward for you, later."

"I… I look forward to it, Mi'Lord." Curtseying, she ducked out of the hall.

Taking another bite, Walder looked out over the great hall of the Twins. The sight of his greatest triumph - one that made him Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and brought Edmure Tully into his dungeons. Now close to crumbling. Besieged on all sides by Stannis… no, not Stannis. But the Stark bastard.  _Ironic. Robb Stark must be laughing at me from wherever the fuck he is now._

"Well, if Jon fucking Snow wants me," Walder Frey snarled. "He can very well come and get me."

Looking like a normal array of stones, suddenly it budged. Pushing open from the inside. Hinges groaning as three Frey bannermen peeked their heads out. Not even a lantern granting them a reprieve from the darkness of the misty night. "Quick," the senior-most soldier told the other two. "Get to the traps and snares. Lord Walder will reward us if they nabbed some fresh meat." Salivating at the thought of a freshly roasted rabbit or fox - something like a boar being reserved for the Lord himself - they darted towards the shore. Animals coming to drink would be trapped, a technique that worked many times before.

Each suppressed gleeful cheers at the fat rabbits ensnared by the river. Desperate to eat well, they didn't notice the two figures creeping behind them from the mist. One was about to bring his knife down on the rabbit when a rough hand covered his mouth. Knife slitting his throat.

Warm blood splattered on the other. "Watch it," he hissed, turning to further scold when he saw the corpse. A mouth opened, but only let out a bloody gurgle as Tormund drove a knife through his back. Motioning to Jon, the two grabbed the bodies, dragging them back to the castle's walls.

Daring not cast a lantern out into the fog, the commander peered out. "Dax! Bryen!" he hissed. "Where the fuck are ya?!" Not getting any answer, pissed and trembling, he just stepped out to get a better look when a dagger stabbed into his eye. The Frey bannerman gasped, twitching in shock for a moment before slumping bonelessly to the ground.

Howland withdrawing the dagger and sheathing it, he tapped the stone wall and motioned forward. Hidden exit a young maiden ripe for the taking. The infiltration team raced from their hiding position below the great bridge. Five of Howland's best fighters and two Free Folk scouts. Boats abandoned, success or failure not needing them again. "Thank Gods for the fog," muttered Jon, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Why do we need to drag these fuckin' bodies? " muttered Tormund.

"Cause if the fog lifts," Howland whispered. "We don't want the damn sentries spottin' em." Tormund said nothing, only glowering as each man ducked single file into the entrance. 'Door' shutting behind them.

A small alcove fit all of them, leading to two sets of stairs. "Alright," Jon stated. "Lord Reed and I will take half of us towards Walder's personal chambers. Tormund will go for the main barracks with the surprise." Howland had insisted they bring something special cooked up in Greywater Watch - he was tight-lipped about it, grinning as the large chest filled with the stuff was lugged by two of his men. "Once the… signal is given at the barracks, the men outside will begin the attack. After, kill every Frey you can find till we reach the Great Hall." He glared at each man. "And no raping or killin' women an' children."

"Takin' the fun out of it, mi'Lord," a wildling smirked. Loving the rise he got out of the honorable Lord Crow.

Jon was not amused, but brushed it off. "Ready?"

"I was fuckin' ready when we marched from Winterfell," Tormund breathed. "Let's kill some kneelers."

The pack of them climbed the steps as quickly and as quietly as they could. The pathway only lit by flickering torches a few of them carried. Jon led the way, everyone in tow. They turned a corner and ascended another set of steps. In a matter of seconds Jon ascertained these led inside the courtyard. From the abundant light peering down the staircase, and the voices of Frey bannermen carried down to them. At the sight, Jon stopped, holding his hand up to stop the party behind him.

The sound of footsteps had them backing up into the darkness, Howland even snuffed the torch in his hand, the others did the same. Moments later a Frey blocked the light, standing at the top of the stairway. He held a flame himself, illuminating his confused expression.

"Hey!" He called out down toward them. In the darkness, Jon's hand immediately snapped to the handle of his blade. "What's taking you cunts so long? The cooks need something to work with other than the fucking cats and dogs." When he heard no response other than silence, he descended the steps, "I'm gonna give you fucks a good kicking." The poor man only made it down four steps before a knife hit him in the neck. As to not make too much commotion, a Crannogmen caught the Frey before he could fall.

After leaving the Frey on the stairs, everyone climbed all the way up. Thankfully, being as though it was the dead of night. There wasn't much going on in way guards, aside from the handful manning the walls across the way. The stables sat straight across from them, and a nearby door presumably lead inside the keep.

Jon turned around to regard the men, "Tormund, head for the stables over there, that should be a good spot for the fire. Once it's lit, try to get the gates open. Lord Reed and I are going for Walder."

Tormund nodded, motioning to the Wildlings behind him, and the crannogmen with the explosive. They headed towards the stable as Jon and Howland went for the Keep.

At the stables, Tormund and his squad approached. Nestled around their meagre fires and chewing on starvation rations, the Frey soldiers that were awake - most huddled under threadbare blankets trying to catch whatever sleep they could - didn't notice as Tormund wedged himself through several supply crates. "Bring it," he hissed, for once grateful he had small, rat-like crannogmen with him and not bruising Free Folk like himself. They made for perfect infiltrators, dashing through the dark doorway and sheathed in the shadows of the crates.

"Here we go." One of the Crannogmen took out two flints from his pockets, readying them by a wick sticking out of the crate. "This is for the red wedding, motherfuckers." It took two scrapes before the wick ignited. "Time to go." Each man booked it, ignoring the half-hearted shouts of the Frey soldiers as they ran with utmost speed.

* * *

The servant girl was just finishing polishing off the last breastplate in the armory when the entire keep shook around her. Helmets and blades falling to the floor around her as she nearly lost her balance.  _What the fuck…_

A screaming maid dashed past, wails echoing through the rafters. Behind was a page boy. "The castle is under attack!"

"RUN!"

"Wildlings'll eat our skin!"

"Out of my way, cunts!" The servant girl hid her surprise when in rushed Lothar Frey, or "Lame Lothar" as he was known. He was a dullard, but with a savage streak. Said to have personally murdered Talisa Stark and her baby. The girl hated him more than anyone but Cersei. "Grab what you need and get to the fucking gates!" Trailing him were his personal guardsmen, two younger brothers and three trusted bannermen. They ransacked the rows of swords and mailwear. "I'm gonna kill some more fuckin' Starks dis night."

A younger Frey twirled a bastard sword, caked in grime - House Frey wasn't famous for cleanliness, and the girl doubted that it had been cleaned since the Red Wedding. "I'm gonna bag me Jon fuckin' Snow."

Her eyes widened despite herself.  _Jon is here?_

"Fuck you. Jon Snow is mine!" Lame Lothar hissed, clipping a blade to his belt. "Roose Bolton got the Young Wolf, but I got his stepmother, goodsister, and nephew. I deserve a full born Stark man…" For the first time, he noticed the girl. "What da fuck you're doin' here?"

She forced herself to look scared. "Just… cleanin' mi'Lord." The girl shifted her feet, inconspicuously nudging the hidden blade in her dress sleeve. Keeping her periphery on Lothar's leering, hungry face.  _Like father like son._

"'Eve 'er, Lothar. Ya can fuck what ya want after Snow is dead."

"Fine!" he snarled. "Give me a helmet, cunt."

"I'll give you what you deserve, mi'Lord," she replied sweetly, grabbing the helmet she had just been cleaning.

Suddenly, the helmet swung through the air. Crashing against Lothar's temple and sending him toppling. Head smacking on the edge of the ledges. The girl was on him in a flash, stiletto clutched in her hand. A piercing scream warbled from her throat as she stabbed repeatedly through Lothar's neck, the Frey's eyes wide with shock and pain. Blood spurting everywhere, drenching her face and dress - but she cared not. Shifting her thrusts to his eyes and face until all above the neck was a bloody mess.

A sharp kick sent her flying off him, hitting the wall with a thud and cough. Scrambling to her feet, the girl saw the attacking bannerman just in time. She sidestepped his wild slash, a quick jab of her arm puncturing a gap in the chainmail right under the armpit. The man gasped, falling to the ground, bleeding out. Hooking a helmet with her foot, she sent it into one of Lothar's brothers, smacking him in the chest and sending him sprawling.

But she didn't notice Lothar's brother Waldron. Sneaking quietly around, the girl was met with her mistake in the form of a thrusting dagger. She tried to sidestep it and it missed her head - a cry of pain left her mouth as she fell, dagger stuck in her shoulder. Waldron and the other men looked at her with rage, swords at the ready. "I ain't gonna kill ya… not at first."

"Ets see if 'er arse feels as good as it 'ooks." The girl's eyes widened from fear as Waldron began untying his trousers…

A gurgling blood trickled from Waldron Frey's mouth - dripping from the sword ran right through it. Jerking back, he collapsed bonelessly, blade catching the others off guard as another's torso was slashed across. Intestines spilling upon the floor, black-clad fighter swinging to punch a bannerman in the nose.

Yanking the dagger from her shoulder, grunting in pain, the girl leapt on the Frey she had sent to the floor. Running the long knife through his ribs. Feeling the blood spurt as his heart impaled itself on the tip. His eyes widened with understanding, breathing his last gasp of air. Letting go, standing, the girl grabbed a rag. Pushing it into the wound to staunch the bleeding. It hurt like a bitch, but would do for now.

"Are you alright, lass?" Her breath hitched at the familiar voice. A voice from a time long past. Turning, she came face to face with Jon Snow… Jon Stark rather. His curls were matted with blood not his own, but his face was kind.

Jon watched with a puzzled expression as the mousy servant girl reached behind her head. Hand yanking off…  _her face?_  It completely floored him… only to yank back in utter shock. Even if he had been nearing Maester Aemon's age, he would have never forgotten that face. Not ever. "Ar… Arya?"

A joyous smile spread on Arya Stark's face, the girl leaping into her older brother's arms. Feeling them wrap tightly around her, a slight sob leaving Jon. She was in tears too. Burying her face in his leather cuirass.

They broke apart moments later, almost in wonder. "How…?"

"Long story," she shrugged. Calmly, Arya reached for a dark corner and removed a small sword.

Curious, suddenly Jon laughed. "You kept it all this time!"

Arya twirled Needle with a grin. "Still have plenty to stick with the pointy end." The pain in her shoulder was gone for now, determination igniting her eyes.

Howland ducked his head in. "My Lord, the army's broken through. We're headin' for the Great Hall. Bastard's in there."

Twin scowls met each other. "Let's go," Arya hissed darkly. "For Robb."

"For Robb."

* * *

Groaning, four bannermen lifted the stained wooden table. "Hurry, you fucks!" 'Black' Walder Rivers snarled, short sword waving in the air as he urged his father's bannermen. "Get it up against the door! Now!"

Downing the cup of wine in his hand, Walder Frey pinched the bridge of his nose.  _Fucking hells._  Over a dozen of his best men were clustered in the great hall, but such was the last vestige of his control. Once he controlled the entire Riverlands, and now the entire Northern Army was flooding the castle. Defenses evaporating as fires spread and giants bashed through the gates under a hail of arrows.

Crash. Crash. A rhythmic pounding slamming against the doors. Demanding entrance. Bannermen flooding to brace them, deny the newcomers entrance.

"Hold firm! We die if you don't!"

Was it just a few years before that it was the Northerners that were trying to break out rather than in? Just yesterday that he had Robb Stark in tears, holding the dead corpse of the foreign whore he had married?  _So close. So fucking close._

With a resounding crack, the door was ripped out of its hinges. Leather and mail-armored northmen streaming in. Snarling and engaging the Freys with vengeful bloodlust. Turning the Great Hall into a familiar bloodbath - only this one not one sided. Crimson coated the floor, splattering from swinging swords and crashing maces. Slowly the Frey men winnowing as more northmen charged in…

There! The unmistakable Stark features of the bastard, leaping through the hole in the door with sword swinging. Followed by the short form of a girl - equally ferocious.

Eyes ablaze, Jon batted away a strike from a ruddy-faced Frey. Arya darting under his arm, howling fury as she ran the man through with Needle. Kicking the boneless corpse to the ground, Jon screamed himself as he charged. Finding the bastard Walder Rivers. Burying Longclaw into his stomach. Meeting the gaping look of shock with one of hardened rage.

As soon as it began, it was over. Only the Lord of the Twins himself left alive of his men in the Western Keep.

Ripping his sword from Black Walder's gut, Jon rose. The warm crimson from the last Frey's body sprayed over his face. He locked eyes with his target, Walder froze from behind his long table. Two of Jon's bannerman trapped him from either side. Smirking, Jon rested on Longclaw, saying, "Ah… Lord Walder Frey, it's good to see you."

Walder scowled as the two bannermen came closer, "Who do you think you are, Bastard?" Then he lifted his bony finger up, "Your foolish brother died just over there. Even years later, you can still see the bloodstain. If you're not careful you'll end up the same."

Arya came from behind Jon, clutching her still bleeding shoulder, "Say anything else about our brother and I'll slit your throat!"

Before she could continue to berate the old man, the sound of Jon's footsteps silenced everyone. His expression darkened, eyes ravenous, he dragged his blade against the stone floor before lifting it high above his head. Walder's eyes widened, and he backed up, though one of the bannermen stopped him from retreating. Instead of hurling the sword at the Frey, Jon brought it down on the table. Harshly slashing it in two, the Valyrian steel making short work of it, tiny pieces of oak went flying. Once that was out of his way, Jon stepped up to Walder's level.

Eye to eye, Jon's gloved hand tightened around the handle of Longclaw. As he began to speak, his jaw clenched, his words heavy with malice, though even in tone, "I've come a very long way for you, Walder. The man who murdered my brother, his wife, and the innocent child in her belly. The second I heard the news I wanted to come for you, but then I was just a lowly member of the Night's Watch. I had no army and no means to acquire one. Well, I didn't have to wait too long. Here I am, a new name, with an army and a King at my back." He used his free hand to grab Walder by the collar to pull him close. "I expected  _more_  out of you. Killing Roose Bolton, at least he was someone. What do I find here? A sick old man with a bad attitude. But none of that matters now, soon you'll be  _nothing_. Your castle will be reduced to rubble, your family name will disappear. Your whole  _house_  will be gone, I'll make sure of it. All the living male survivors will be sent to the Wall. I'll send the women away somewhere else. Unable to carry the name any further. This place will be given to someone loyal to me. No  _Frey_  will ever hold a claim of it, of anything. You hear me, Walder?"

The cranky old man gritted his teeth, "None of that will bring your fool King brother back."

Jon growled, blood boiling, "Every breath you draw insults me."

Behind him Arya approached, her own eyes boring holes in Walder, she said in a low voice, "Cut him down, Jon. Kill him."

Having been watching the whole time, Howland stepped up. The scene itself had surprised him, he hadn't yet seen this side of Jon. This level of anger, he'd sparsely seen it his whole life. Especially not out of a person with Stark blood running through their veins. Slowly, he moved up, "Jon, what are you doing? You don't have to do this. This isn't you."

Arya turned to him, but Jon kept his eyes on Walder. Neither of them responded.

"Why strike him down in anger? Make an example of him instead," Howland proposed.

"I am making an example of him," Jon replied, darkly. "Everyone will see what happens when you fuck with my House."

"The North Remembers," Arya said, looking back to Walder.

"We never forget," Jon nodded.

Walder chuckled dryly, coughing a bit, "When we devised a plan to kill your brother, I said we should kill that whore who carried his child first." He wheezed out a laugh, proud of himself. "Make Robb Stark watch, helpless. I wanted to make sure that there was nothing left of 'The Young Wolf' upon this earth. Succeeded too." Jon's eyes widened, shifting his hand to the neck, tightening his grip. So much so that Walder dropped to his knees for a few moments, though Jon brought him back up, choking him.

He pulled Walder close and said, "I, Jon Stark, sentence you, Walder Frey, to die." Typically, he'd allow the person some last words, but Walder didn't deserve that.

"For Robb," Jon whispered. In a flash, he pushed Longclaw through Walder's stomach. Then he tore the blade out, flinging blood around, further covering himself. The Frey gurgled, holding his wound. Though the Stark wasn't done, he slashed downward slicing through, severing the collar bone from the neck. Then out, and back again, digging deeper into Walder's chest. Before the dying Frey could fall, Jon twirled his blade, only to bring it back across, this time going for the head. Walder's skull lifted from his form in a spin, spurting crimson. The head landing with a dull thud against the ground.

Breathing heavily, Jon watched the haggered body fall utterly lifeless, all hacked up, headless. So much blood on the stone, it pooled under his feet, any steps only became splashes. He kept his eyes on Walder Frey for a few more moments, before turning to leave.

Forever known as The Wrath of the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: We really loved putting this one together. I love how it kinda ballooned out into the whole other thing. Originally, Jon was supposed to sneak in with Howland. Then we thought about how cool it'd be if Arya showed up. Once we thought about that we had to find a way to get her there. I think it turned out pretty good. But I don't know you tell me.
> 
> Big things ahead.
> 
> Longclaw: We were struggling to top how the Freys died last time, but I think we did it :D
> 
> Our boy Jon managed to defeat the Boltons, Lannisters, and Freys, joined along the way by Sansa and Arya. Each of them got their chance to get in a lick. Personally, I think he's basically become a greater legend than Stannis has: bastard boy that brought the wildlings south of the wall and systematically avenged and rescued his family from those that nearly destroyed them. Works better than a King taking his throne.
> 
> And Dany hasn't yet come across the sea. Still saving that ;)
> 
> Let us know what y'all thought in a comment.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	15. Khaleesi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Wow, the reception for the last chapter blew us away!
> 
> The tags have officially changed for this story. We're going for DarkJon and DarkDany for the most part, though both are and will remain the heroes of GoT as they should be. I'm kinda an optimist and BRuh is as well for the most part, so it'll be fun writing it from a darker perspective.
> 
> BRuh4: Kinda another small one in terms of events, yet there's a lot of important moments. We're finally reaching that stretch of moments Longclaw and I had decided we'd have even before the first word was typed. So, you've got that to look forward to.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

Smoke wreathed King's Landing. Wafting from the smoldering pile of ruins where the Sept of Baelor had once been, even weeks after the explosion of wildfire that immolated it and the entirety of the people within. Including the High Sparrow, the Faith Militant, Queen Margaery, Kevan Lannister, and all of House Tyrell. Frankly, Jaime had seen worse destruction in his life.

But not worse than what it represented. Door shutting behind him by the great, towering form of what used to be Gregor Clegane, he felt his entire body trembling. Staring at the form of his sister, clad in a dress of all black and sipping wine quietly, crown on her head. "Please… tell me this wasn't your doing. That it was Qyburn, or Littlefinger… or some insane contingency by those fanatics gone wrong." Jaime didn't recognize this Cersei, the woman he loved replaced with someone… hard.

Turning, Cersei only wore a sublime smirk. "Oh, my dear brother. We don't lie to each other." She stepped close to him, hands wrapping around his waist - letting her face bury itself in the crook of his neck. Jaime didn't stop her. "Our enemies in this wretched city are no more. We have won."

"And Tommen?" Jaime croaked, trying to hide the things she was doing to him.

Cersei sighed, a flicker of pain crossing her face before she smothered it. "He… was always too weak. Too easily manipulated to see what had to be done for our family."

He gaped at her. "Tommen was our son… and now you speak of him as but an object…"

"Don't you dare suggest I didn't love our children!" Cersei hissed. "Their fate was predetermined long before I even married Robert." She closed her eyes and leaned against his chest. "The past is the past, and we must prepare for the future."

"And the thousands that died in the Sept of Baelor? Do you plan to sweep them under a rug?"

"You do remember what you said, sweet brother. 'Fuck everyone that isn't us?'" Jaime opened his mouth to speak, but stopped short. He had said that. "We hold the capitol, that is the most important part. Even with your… defeat in the Riverlands…"

"Father should have wiped out Stannis immediately after Blackwater. He had the Redwyne fleet and could have hit Dragonstone - we're paying for his focus on the North and the Riverlands. Both hate us even more now, and are led by someone strong."

Cersei snorted. "Stannis was wounded in the far north doing gods' knows what. He's a walking joke with a mishmash of different factions backing him."

Jaime shook his head. "Not Stannis… the son of Ned Stark... His bastard. I know he is a bastard, but I haven't seen anything like it. He fights like a crazed wolf, like a winter's gale. The men already call him "Wrath of the North" for how he defeated each of his family's enemies in quick succession: the Boltons, us, and now Walder Frey." He grabbed a glass of wine, draining it. "Even if we kill Stannis, they'll rally behind the bastard Jon Snow. Probably be more unified than ever as a result."

A merry laugh left Cersei's lips - the Queen looking giddy. "My dear Jaime, you are forgetting our secret weapon." She delighted in his confusion. "Qyburn's little birds tell us that Daenerys Targaryen is planning to sail from Slaver's Bay to take her throne back."

"She's been said to do that for years. I don't see how…"

Raising her palm, Cersei cut him off. "Her three dragons are grown and ready to fight. They burned an entire fighting pit of her enemies. I have no doubt that she will come with all due haste to take the Iron Throne for herself."

Imagining the Targaryen madness equipped with dragons all over again filled Jaime with dread. "If that's true, then why are you celebrating it?"

"Because, Jaime, the dragon whore is weak as well. Freeing the slaves of Meereen rather than sailing here with her Unsullied…" She spat in disrespect. "She'll avoid this city in order to spare the rabble outside, bringing her in conflict with Stannis." Clapping her hands, she looked out over the city. Basking in her new domain like a lioness over the grasslands. "Whichever survives the onslaught shall be weak. Easy pickings for us and our forces nestled behind the walls of this city. The Stag, the Wolf, and the Dragon will fall, and the pride of Lions will rule."

Staring at his sister - the woman he loved - Jaime hoped her strategy would come together. For he remembered another King from his past fond of such great bombasity. The same ruthless zeal set in his gaze.

* * *

Having known his sister was tended to many hours ago, Jon let himself in to her makeshift room. Thankfully, she wasn't in a state of undress. Though he half expected her to be startled at his sudden presence. It was him who was surprised when she had no reaction at all. Arya sat at a table by a roaring fireplace. Her eyes settled on him, with raised eyebrows, "Had you intended on knocking?"

"I decided against it," Jon replied, entering fully into her space.

She motioned to a chair across from her, "Have a seat."

"Aye," Jon huffed, plopping down in the wooden chair. "I'd like to sit down."

"I'd bet you do need a rest," Arya said, with a half-smile.

Her brother nodded, with a heavy exhale, "Aye, I wish I could rest."

"You having been sleeping?"

"Not much."

"Me neither," Arya shrugged.

"I suppose we're alike in that way," Jon smirked. Looking his sister over, "Probably not the only way."

"I've missed you, Jon."

Jon smiled, "You too."

Arya winced then, rolling her shoulder around, "Hurts."

"How are you holding up?"

"Some old woman stitched me up this morning, then I've been sitting here ever since," Arya explained. "The old bag told me I shouldn't be sparring or anything for awhile, unless I want to reopen the wound."

"I know that angers you, but it's for the best," Jon told her. Before she could retort, he kept speaking, "Speaking of what's best… I think it's best if you return home."

Frowning, Arya sat forward abruptly, "What?"

"It's not safe for you with me."

"I can take care of myself," Arya scowled.

"Can you?" Jon said, pointing at her shoulder.

"I'm not a little girl anymore," she retorted, glaring at him.

"No, but you are my little sister, and you will do as I say," Jon told her, with an air of finality.

Slowly, Arya raised her chin, "Since you're this big lord now, you think you can tell me what to do?"

"That's not what this is about, this is about your safety," Jon explained, gesturing at her. "I can't allow you to be harmed, I'll never forgive myself."

Arya seemed to calm down, expression softening at her brother's affection… but she was still not happy about this. "A lot has changed since you last saw me, Jon. I'm not defenseless."

"I realize that," Jon sighed, shaking his head. "You got into the Twins, all by yourself. I'm not saying you're not resourceful. It'd just be safer for you to be in Winterfell, where you can be protected. Don't you want to see Sansa and Rickon?"

Arya avoided her brother's gaze, eyes wandering to the fire, "I didn't say that. I've just got other things to do."

"Other things? What's more important than family?"

"Nothing," Arya snapped, returning her gaze to him. "That's the whole point, our enemies aren't back at home."

"That's why I'm going to fight them, but that's not for you."

She hit her fist on the table, "I'm not a lady! I'm not going to return home and sit and wait will you go and fight. I won't. I can't."

"You have to. You must. You can't be running around like this. For my peace of mind at the very least," Jon grimaced. The thought of his dear sister being maimed crossed his mind.

Arya upturned her nose, "I won't go. I'm staying with you."

"To do what? Fight by my side? Arya, I'm going to war. I can't allow you to be put in danger," Jon said, considering this common sense.

She simmered. "I can't believe you."

"It's not like I don't want to see you, I just saw you again after all this time. I'm overjoyed to see you. I want you to be safe, okay? You'll be safe in our bannermen in the North. Not on a battlefield with me, I'm going into enemy territory and I won't be able to protect you. I am the head of our house now, and this is what I'm commanding. You are going home."

"You can't make me, Jon."

"I will if I have to, Arya," Jon told her. "I can. If you won't go willingly."

Arya leaned back, confused as to who she was really looking at. She wondered if her eyes deceived her. This was the last thing she'd expected to hear from her brother. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

At her words, Jon got up and went over to her side, gingerly wrapping his arms around her. Careful of her injury. Though beside herself with irritation, Arya sighed and welcomed the embrace. "I told you, I am." He kissed her brow. "I'd just rather be sad without you then be happy and have you die with me."

* * *

The Dothraki took her without a second thought. A maiden as beautiful as she, they'd be stupid not to. Many of the bloodriders pined after her, some even went as far to touch her. The Khal even spoke of how he would take her that night. It was then that Daenerys herself known, Khal Drogo's Khalessi. After that no one would come near her, it wasn't allowed. With her Khal being dead, she belonged with the other widowed Khals in Vaes Dothrak, the Dosh Khaleen. Just so happened that this pack of Dothraki was headed there anyway.

The trip there was so bad, she was given a horse and a tent. Though the journey was long. After more days than she knew, they reached Vaes Dothrak. Her eyes glued to the massive horse statues above her as the entered. If not for the huge unknown hanging over her head, she might be amazed. Nevertheless, this second time visit wasn't nearly as exciting as the first. All those years ago, the Dosh Khaleen named her child The Stallion Who Mounts the World. Her soul ached then, a part of her wishing she could've lived that life with her child and Drogo. But that was so long ago, and she had much bigger plans in mind now.

She was led inside the village, immediately taken inside a hut. Where the rest of the widows waited for her.

Daenerys considered all the gray older women, from their meger interactions, these women had been here for many years. This was to be the life of a Khalessi once their Khal died. All of them lived here, never allowed to leave. If things had turned out differently, she may have been taken here. A mediocre existence, she decided.

She wouldn't allow this to become her. Old and gray, just existing, with nothing to prove, nothing to give. But according to one of the other Khaleesi, it would be this, or death. Dany stifled a chuckle, death sounded better to her then what these women endured.

All the Khals were supposed to decide her fate that night.

They gathered in the Temple Dosh of the Khaleen near the entrance to the city, dimly lit aside from four huge braizers that illuminated the room. Dany stood on a slightly elevated center stage, numerous sets of malice filled eyes stared her down. Though she appeared unfazed. The fifteen of them continued to stare her down, hoping for her to cower. They'd be sorely disappointed.

Some of the Khals sat down, others stood, one of them finally spoke up, "Well, Drogo sure had him a pretty one." The group of them laughed loudly, Dany didn't flinch.

Then a Khal rose, moving closer to her, "I'd sure like a few minutes with her in my bed."

"Maybe we should all have some time with her," another said, many grumbles of agreement followed.

"The wise masters of Yunkai want her, they'd give us thousands of horses in exchange."

Khal Moro, the one who first captured Dany, spoke then, crossing his arms, "Fuck the Masters, I'll take their horses for myself."

"I think I should have a say," Dany said, in perfect Dothraki, surprising the Khals.

Moro scoffed, "We don't give a fuck what you want. You aren't Dosh Khaleen, you have no say here."

"I have all the say I want, I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," Dany cocked her head to the side. "And you are small men, you great Khals. None of you are fit to lead the Dothraki. But I am. So I think I will."

The pack of burst into laughter, "You crazy cunt," Moro laughed, slapping his leg. "You think we'd serve you. No." He rose from his seat then, "No here's what I think. No Dosh Khaleen for you. We'll take turns fucking you until your bloody, then our Bloodriders will have a turn. After that maybe my horse will fuck you. What a dumb cunt, do you really think we'd ever serve you?"

Dany smirked, "No, you're not going to serve."

Not a second later, sharp shrieks filled the air, diving into the room, filling it. The shrieks continued until they got louder, and louder. All the Khals looked at each other, frowning, then back to Dany. A heavy breeze flew through the thin walls of the hut, nearly toppling it, blowing Dany's hair. The ground shook, rumbling under their feet, forcing all the Khals to rise. Many ran to the exit, but the door was barred from the other side. The rumbling stopped, only the sound the Khal's fists hitting the door filled the air. Then low hisses fluttered through the thatch walls, steam seeming in. From all sides, they were surrounded.

"What the fuck is going on?" Khal Moro said, retreating from the walls. Then glancing at Dany, "What is happening?"

"I told you, you're not going to serve. The only else left for you is to die."

Then in a flash, the room seemingly exploded. White hot fire flying through the walls, torching the insides. Hot plumes hit the Khals, roasting most of them to bone immediately. The fire kept coming until the hut collapsed in on itself.

Outside, a crowd gathered - a massive throng of people pouring out from across the entire sacred city - having heard the shrieks from all around. Coming to find three dragons standing over the burning remains the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. The horrifying sight sent many trembling in fear.

Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal lifted their heads to the sky and wailed. Moments later, a form stepped out from the flames, moving out to stand where the door used to be.

Daenerys Targaryen, the unburnt, walked, largely unaffected by the flames, aside from her clothes that been burned off. She stood, naked, before droves of Dothraki, for all of them to see. The dragons roared at the sight of their mother. As if taking at as a command, all the Dothraki fell to their faces in submission.

A true Khalessi once more, Dany smirked to herself at the sight of the masses bow to her.

It brought a true sense of accomplishment, a joy she hadn't felt in a while.

* * *

"Khaleesi," the older man said, nearly whispering. He'd uttered the word many times, it'd hit her ear the same way oftentimes. With reverence, only waiting to hear the next command. Though when he said it now, it was different. This time it's more of a plea, a desperate plea. He'd came back, yet again. Even though she'd tried to keep him away, twice now. Even after all that, he'd followed her all the way to Vaes Dothrak.

He just wouldn't stay away.

Her old bear.

They stood on a hill, Vaes Dothrak just laying in the distance. All the Dothraki getting ready to move out, the smoke from the fire billowing into the sky. She'd seen him and Daario just before she went into the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. They had blocked the door for her.

Daenerys and her Bear stood a bit apart, his shift shuffled near to her, but then stopped. "I've sent you away, two times now," she said, holding up two fingers. "For your betrayal, and you've returned twice, why is that?"

"I've only wanted to serve you," Jorah replied.

"You've said that, many times," Dany smirked, making him half-smile. They were silent for a few moments, and then she said, "I can't take you back, and I can't seem to send you away." Taking a few steps forward, only for him retreat back.

Jorah shook his head, holding his hands up, "You must send me away." Her face contorted in confusion, then she watched as he turned up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing the greyscale he'd been hiding. The darkness a stark difference from the rest of his skin, appearing rather repulsive.

A shuddering breath left Dany's lips, "Is there a cure?"

"I don't know."

"Is it going to spread? How long does it take?"

"I'm not sure," Jorah pursed his lips, rolling the sleeve back down. "Though I know what happens when it gets far enough. I won't let himself get that far, I'll end it far before that."

"Ser Jorah, I'm so sorry," Dany whispered, her eyes filling with tears, the sudden emotion surprising her. Thought of one of the oldest friend's dying a horrible death, no matter what he's done, wasn't pleasant. It hurt more than she expected.

"Please, Khalessi, don't be," Jorah said. He paused, looking away from her for a moment, "Tyrion Lannister was right... I do love you. I always will. But I have to go, I can't stay, not like this. Even if you would have me. I'm not fit to serve, which I cannot allow. It hurts… to know the only thing I want to do… I can't."

"You can-"

"I can't, Khalessi," Jorah said, cutting in. "It's okay." He backed up, "This is goodbye, Khalessi." With that, he started down the hill behind him, though he wouldn't look away from Dany. Until he did, and turned his back

Daenerys took a step forward, wanting to say something, "Stop, Ser Jorah, I've not dismissed you." Slowly, Jorah looked back to her. "You swore yourself to me. Swore to obey my commands for the rest of your life." At his small nod of acknowledgement, she continued, "I command you find the cure, scour the world if you have to, find it, if it exists. Then return to me, I need you... I need you by my side when I take the Seven Kingdoms."

Jorah seemed taken aback by her words, totally taken off guard. Though he hung onto the words, hearing every word. His disbelief washing away, he'd do his damndest to obey.

Like always, though this time he had a newfound sense of motivation. Before her proclamation to him, his plan was to go somewhere and finish it. Get it over with.

Now though, his resolve was strengthened, he'd find a damn cure.

* * *

"Make way for the Lord!" Stark direwolves fluttering over the courtyard to the Twins - a beautiful sight for the northmen gathered in and around the keep of the defunct House Frey - Jon walked out to find riders gallop through the large gates. Wide enough to allow for streams of foot and freight traffic that proceeded across the bridges, it easily fit the dozen or so riders that arrived trailing the white trout banners of House Tully. Longclaw at his side, Jon reached out his hands with a rather informal smile. "Ser Davos, it is good to see you again."

Davos chuckled, clasping Jon's hand warmly. "Glad to see you alive, son." The Onion Knight looked around. "Done pretty well for yourself, I see. Avenged your brother." Clasping his hand on Jon's back, he let himself feel a rather paternal pride in the young lad. "I knew you'd be destined for greatness when I saw you. Perhaps when this is all over, you'll be His Grace's Hand?"

Laughing sheepishly, Jon shrugged. "While it would be an honor, Starks don't do well in peacetime in the South." While he always enjoyed Davos' company, there were other visitors he had to attend to. Offering one last smile, he turned and gave a shallow bow of respect as the lead rider dismounted. "Ser Brynden, welcome to the Twins."

Gruff and sullen as ever, Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully nevertheless seemed satisfied at what he saw of the Twins. "Can't say this place won't ever smell like cheap wine and old farts, but it's better now that the fucker Walder is dead." He scanned the direwolf sigils. "Would've preferred the Tully banner to hang here, but you Starks deserve it after all."

"Aye, we do." Motioning for the Blackfish and his men to follow him inside, Jon and Davos flanked the patriarch of House Tully and de facto leader of the Riverlands. "Your men can find refreshments in the great hall. Relax where Walder Frey died."

The Blackfish snorted. "You have a sense of humor. Unlike Stannis. Being with him was torture, even if I did see Riverrun again."

"He is your King, show some respect," Davos replied, curtly.

"He's not my King yet. I never bent the knee, nor did any Riverlander. Not yet at least - I wanted to hear from the man that took the Twins first."

Sharing a quick glance with Davos, Jon nodded. "That can be arranged, along with your family."

He quirked an eyebrow. "My family?"

"Your nephew and grand-nephew are here, as well as your grand-niece."

"Little Edmure?" Brynden half-laugh, with a scoff. "I didn't know he made it."

"Seem Walder didn't want to murder him along with my brother," Jon said, hanging his head for a moment. "Kept him chained up. His wife and son were essentially confined to their room. The only Freys I didn't strip of their titles or name… though I guess they aren't Freys."

The Blackfish regarded him with a curious eye. "No, they're not. Thank you… at least House Tully has a future, even if it has to endure my nephew. He's family… but he's a pussy. Always wished my niece Catelyn had a cock. Would've been an excellent Lord."

Davos noticed Jon stiffen at the mention of Lady Stark. Quickly, he shifted the subject. "Perhaps he toughened up while locked up? That tends to change men."

"We'll see."

A bannerman of House Umber opened the door to the Lord's solar - now Jon's chambers until he could install a new Lord of the Twins - letting the group of men in. Already seated was Arya, casually sharpening Needle while it perched in her slinged hand. Ghost resting beside her, rather protective of his little sister. Jon cleared his throat. "Sister, we have a guest."

"I can see that, brother," she said flippantly. Looking up. "Hello, uncle Brynden. I'd get up but," she pointed to her shoulder with an apologetic look. "Injured in the line of duty."

Brynden's scowl didn't change, while Davos suppressed a chuckle. Jon grinned, knowing she wasn't one for formalities - he had seen that apologetic look before, and knew it was shit. "Now that you met my sister…"

"Lady Roslin." The second person in the solar needed no introduction - it had been her wedding that started all the mess in the Riverlands. Ever a gentleman, the Blackfish reached out and took the Lady of Riverrun's hand, kissing it. "Thank the Gods that you are alright. And the… child?"

Blushing faintly, Roslin Tully nestled the toddler in her arms. The boy fast asleep. "Axel. His name is Axel Tully, my Lord."

"A fine name. I shall enjoy watching him grow up." Looking him over, the Blackfish nodded. "Looks like his grandfather, my brother. Will be a fine Lord of Riverrun, I can see it." The Lady Roslin smiled.

Pulling himself a seat, Jon felt something furry nudge into his side. He laughed, looking at Ghost. Ruffling his fur and scratching behind his ear - one of the few cathartic things he had left besides spending time with his family and read the few letters Sam and Aemon sent from the wall. Direwolf lolling his tongue out and mewling happily at the attention. Arya smiled warmly, as did Davos. Roslin gave a small smile while the Blackfish's scowl… slightly softened. Little Axel had finally awoken, watching the big direwolf with awe.

The door opened and an Umber bannerman entered. "Mi'Lord, I present Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun." Two other bannermen led in a rather scruffy figure. Rail thin and his clothes hanging on him like bags, but clean shaven and dressed well. Befitting a poor Lord, but a Lord nonetheless.

"Edmure." Roslin rose, racing over to hug her husband. One she barely had any time to see since arriving at the Twins from Riverrun the day before. The Starks and Davos allowed the young family a moment.

But not the more practical Blackfish. "Sit down you fool. You can do that on your own damn time."

Sparing his wife and son a tender look, the young and wary Lord took a seat beside his uncle. "Lord Stark. Once again and in the presence of my family, thank you for delivering justice for House Tully as you did my sister and nephew."

Jon nodded. "As I said to you weeks ago, you are most welcome, Lord Tully." He smiled. "I hope we can use this moment of unity to form an alliance between House Tully and the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Name your terms, Lord Stark."

Handing the floor to Davos, the Onion Knight cleared his throat. "His Grace seeks no quarrel with the rightful rulers of Riverrun, and is willing to reinstate House Tully as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands as well as grant them the treasury of the late House Frey, minus ten percent to the Starks of Winterfell and twenty percent to the crown itself."

The Blackfish crossed his arms. "Money is money, but what's to happen with the fuckin' Twins themselves?"

"Will my sisters and brothers be safe?" Roslin asked timidly, close to Edmure's side.

"Your sisters are safe, they will stay with their husbands or - if you wish - could be sent to Riverrun as your ladies in waiting. The Frey name will die, however. All but you will have their names stripped of them and be made bastards. Any of your male relatives that participated in the Red Wedding still alive will be sent to the Wall." Jon sympathized with Roslin. She seemed nothing like her shit of a father, but now wasn't the time to be too merciful.

Arya, naturally, was inclined to be far more ruthless. "Be lucky that's all he's doing… Lady Tully," she said nonchalantly, but it came off as a threat nonetheless. Roslin quieted down, counting her blessings.

Eying both his sister and Davos, Jon continued. "In addition, I will be naming a new Lord to the Twins on King Stannis' behalf."

"And who would that be, Lord Stark?" asked Edmure.

"Edwyn Cassel, a brave young knight and son of the late Master-of-Arms at Winterfell." Jon took a deep breath, ready for the firestorm.

It came as he expected, although from Edmure rather than Brynden. "A Northerner? You're taking the Twins for yourself?" He was incredulous.

Jon didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Without King Stannis' direction?"

Producing a piece of parchment, Davos Seaworth placed it in the middle of the table. "A decree from his Grace Stannis Baratheon, declaring House Cassel domain of the Twins as a major house answering to House Stark of Winterfell. All it needs is to be joined by Lord Stark's word and it is done."

"You can't do that…"

"That is where you're wrong, uncle," Arya cut in. "The North suffered the most by Walder Frey's treachery. Thousands dead, a dozen houses gutted of their heirs. Its King butchered and his wolf's head sewn to his body and paraded around!" Jon's head whipped around, looking at Arya with hidden shock. That was a detail he hadn't known.  _If I hadn't killed Walder, I'd have done it now._  Arya seethed with rage. "Winter came for House Frey, and now Winter came for the Twins."

Jaw open to retort, Brynden silenced Edmure with a wave of the hand. "I don't doubt the North didn't suffer, Lady Stark…"

"I'm no lady."

The Blackfish actually chuckled at that. "But the fact of the matter is that the Riverlands suffered the most during this war. You can't just take away one of the lynchpin estates for yourself and expect us to bend the knee to Stannis."

Jon looked at each of the Tullys, a small smile reaching his face. "The Riverlands will receive its due. They'll receive all of what they had prior to this war and more. All from where the blame truly belongs." He leaned forward. "The Lannisters. But that won't happen unless you bend the knee to Stannis." Arya beamed at her older brother. He truly was the powerful Lord that she had always hoped for him to be.

"We have the forces of the Stormlands, North, and Free Folk under Stannis' command, along with a significant contingent of Crownlands forces pledged to Dragonstone." No one knew the breadth of Stannis' kingdom than Davos. If Jon would win the throne for Stannis, Davos would keep it for him - or so the common saying went among the high Lords under the Stag King. "We are currently in negotiations with the Lord Protector of the Vale…"

"Baelish, ha!" Brynden smacked the table. "Good luck trusting that cunt." He pursed his lips. "But I see your point. Cersei's smart, but blowing up the Lord of Highgarden leaves her with nearly nothing. North, Stormlands, Vale, and... Wildlings? With our forces in the mix there would be no stopping them by the bitch."

"Uncle, hasn't our kingdom suffered enough…?"

Glaring at his nephew, the Blackfish grunted. "And we'll fucking suffer worse if we just let the war for the throne continue endlessly. It has to end now. So," he nudged Edmure. "You're the Lord of Riverrun. Do what you have to do."

Sighing, Edmure stood. Extending his hand. "I will need to meet with Stannis himself, but if he agrees to proper compensation for the Riverlands when Cersei is defeated, then the Riverlands stand with him."

Relieved, and a little bit triumphant, Jon took Edmure's hand. Pact all but secured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: We knew Dany still had to go to the Dothraki because she needs those men to invade. But we didn't wanna rehash anything that you guys saw in the show. Again, anything that was happening behind the scenes around now in canon, assume it's still happening even though we don't show it too you. For example, we checked in at King's Landing in this one, after Cersei had taken the throne. All that shit that happened with that happened, we didn't wanna change it or just repeat it to y'all in written form.
> 
> So, Dany with the Dothraki needed a different twist, we decided that the dragons showing up would be dope. I think it ended up pretty cool.
> 
> Ooh boy, all the pieces are coming together people, hold onto your hats.
> 
> Longclaw: So there's gonna be a lot of political intrigue and angst for a few chapters before things get really insane. Gotta set up a lot of shit ;)
> 
> Further clarification on the DarkJon and DarkDany plans, this is still a Jonerys story and we aren't changing that, but I guess you can say we will spin their relationship in a different manner. Craft it to fit the general tone of the story as we did Jon's relationships with Sansa, Rickon, and Arya. You guys are gonna like it, trust me :)
> 
> Let us know what y'all thought in a comment.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	16. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Things are starting to really heat up. Just a little more setup and then buckle up for the ride of your lives!
> 
> Good news! My Rhaegar/Lyanna story has finally been published! It's called My Father's Son! Everyone be sure to check it out! :D
> 
> BRuh4: We're getting close people, it's all about to kick off. There's so much stuff we've been waiting forever to show y'all and it's finally getting close. Hold on to your hats.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Follow, fav, and review!

Fire crackling in the hearth, Sansa was going over grain reports with Rickon when there was a knock on the door to her solar. "Come in," she called, slightly apprehensive despite not needing to. Nevertheless, she relaxed when Osha entered. "What is it?"

"Old man Wolken said to give ya' these," she drawled, tossing two folded dispatches. "Came in today by raven. One's from the White Wolf… other's some kind of bird."

Sansa grabbed Jon's first. As she read it, a smile spread across her face. "The Twins are officially part of the North now, and he's sending Arya back home."

"Arya's coming home?!" Rickon's eyes widened with happiness. Both had been ecstatic at the news that their long-lost sister was alive after all, and further reuniting House Stark where they deserved to be filled them with glee. "And the other one?"

Picking it up, she noticed the Mockingbird atop it. "Littlefinger," Sansa breathed. "This won't be good. Probably wants to discuss an alliance."

"Wait, Sansa. Wouldn't someone who was married to our aunt be perfect for Jon and the King?" Even with him growing into a tall, burly northern warrior, his grey eyes still shone with an innocence that was lacking in Jon's or Sansa's. "I mean, the pack sticks together, right? Mother was always saying that about us, and her family was always close as well."

 _What can I say to that?_  Honestly, she envied Rickon for his boyish naivete - such as she was before heading south to King's Landing. Sharing a look with Osha, Sansa's eyes flickered to the door. Silently communicating to the wildling woman.

"Alright, little Lord. Time for your swordsplay lessons."

Rickon groaned. "That's supposed to be two hours after lunch."

"It has been two hours after lunch." She pointed to the hourglass resting on Sansa's desk. "You know that Ser Willem is waiting in the courtyard, and ya' need to be able to defend yerself. Now go. Shoo." Rolling his eyes, Rickon nevertheless complied. Standing, giving Sansa a hug that was promptly and lovingly returned, and stomped out the door.

Sansa sighed. "Thank you for that."

The wildling woman snorted, plopping down in the seat that Rickon left and crossing her arms. "Now what was that all about?" She pointed to the unopened dispatch. "Kin ye' can't trust?"

"That's putting it mildly." Sighing once again, she broke the seal open with a knife and unfurled it. Reading the contents.

_Dearest Sansa,_

_It brings me joy to find out that your brother has secured the Twins. Walder Frey deserved to die for how he betrayed your family. How he betrayed your mother - of whom I loved since I was a boy. I count down the days till you put down the lion as you did the Flayed Man and the bridge._

_Why did Sansa have the feeling that Littlefinger would rather be writing the exact same words only with a condolence for the death of Jon? Because you're not an idiot. Jon was truly one of a kind - Sansa figured that even if he were here, that she'd be given the same level of authority - but it was still easier to deal with the opponent one knew as the sole bargainer. Pursing her lips, she read on._

_Now that the Riverlands will undoubtedly declare for Stannis, the more… cautious Lords of the Vale are certain to drop their reluctance to my urging to side on behalf of those that avenged the deaths of Jon Arryn and my beloved Catelyn. I will be sending a raven to the Stag King for a parlay in Harrenhal personally, as the castle is still mine. But I don't fear that such a meeting would go as well if you were not there, my little bird. Shouldn't be too hard a journey if you push it._

_Sweetrobin is eager to see his beloved cousin again… as am I._

_All my love,_

_Uncle Petyr._

A shudder of revulsion passed over Sansa's body at the salutation line. That the man who used her to drive her aunt insane and then sold her to the Boltons… She was only barely healed from that alone. Now, he was trying to claim he cared for her. Sansa wasn't fooled, but Petyr Baelish wasn't someone she could dismiss or have executed.  _Will have to tread carefully._

"So I gather that he's shittin' out of his mouth as he talks, huh?" Osha may have been blunt and rather… libertine regarding courtly manners, but the new Sansa appreciated it. There were no airs with her, and she was proven loyal to House Stark. With Jon leaving her in charge, Sansa had come to trust Osha as her unofficial 'Hand.' "I'll take your silence as a yes."

"Petyr Baelish… he is a coward who gets his way through blackmail, secrets, and trickery."

"Those kinds of men get their teeth kicked in up in the True North. Or fed to the shadowcats."

A chuckle left Sansa's face.  _Oh, would that be satisfying._  "As tempting as that may be, Littlefinger also has the entire Vale on his side."

Osha blinked. "That's a big deal, right?"

"One of the two Kingdoms that still has an intact army. Probably could secure Stannis and Jon twenty thousand men at least. Probably more." She folded the letter. "I'm going to have to pack."

"Don't tell me you're actually acceptin' his offer? Probably a trap."

"Aye, a trap, but I doubt he thinks I'm anything more than a broken shell leaning on Jon for support." Sansa stood, brushing at her skirts. "I'll bring Lyanna Mormont, Alys Karstark, and Wyman Manderly with me. Easier to disguise myself when the she-Bear does the talking for the both of us." She scribbled some words on a piece of parchment, folding it for the rookery. "I'll get to pick up Arya."

They both left the solar, walking across the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. "And you don't trust the White Wolf to do the negotiatin?"

Did she trust Jon to do this? Could the darker, stronger Jon Stark do what the beaten, honorable whelp on Snow couldn't? It was clear to Sansa. "I love Jon, but Littlefinger would chew him up and spit him out. I have to go."

* * *

"Get out there! Fuckin' cunts, go!" Enjoying the procession of gloomy and terrified noblemen, Daario Naharis gestured with his sword. The Second Sons shepherding the line of prisoners began knocking them about. Fists flying and whips cracking. "Now you know what the whip is like, assholes. Go faster!"

Jeers and spit from the other sellswords followed. Reluctantly, the trembling prisoners increased their speed. Truth be told, the stone cold Unsullied lined along the walls terrified them far more than the gregarious sellswords. The bloodthirsty Dothraki screamers that seemed to be everywhere were worse than the freed slave soldiers...

Three screeching bellows from the stands of the fighting pits made many stumble upon the ground. Yelps of fear joined with the pungent stench of soiled garments among the stalled prisoners. Amber eyes watching them with barely contained rage, it was the three great dragons that scared them the most. Ones that single-handedly forced the surrender of the attacking fleet. That led the attack of the Dothraki to butcher the Sons of the Harpy to the last man. And now they watched over them, lambs to the slaughter.

Herded into a single open space, a raised platform housed their one hope of salvation - or alternately the angel of death herself. Daenerys Targaryen was a beautiful woman, hells, considered by many to be the most beautiful woman in the world. In the fine silks of vibrant color that she normally wore, she was breathtaking. The black Targaryen battle dress was no less breathtaking, but also exuded a shroud of majesty and terror to all comers that stood in her way.

The collection of masters, merchants, other assorted noblemen, sellsword captains, and handlers of slave soldiers knew they were witnessing Visenya Targaryen reborn.

Daario bounded up the steps to stand by Daenerys' side, only to be rebuffed by the silent Grey Worm, who guarded her direct flank with Ser Barristan. Looking at Daenerys for assistance, and finding none, Daario nodded in resignation and took a place next to the Imp and Lord Varys. Waiting for the Lady Missandei to begin.  _"You stand before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."_

Silence followed, pierced only by the coughs of the prisoners and grunts of the dragons behind the platform.  _"Gathered masters,"_  began Daenerys in High Valyrian.  _"You have engaged in the mass suffering of human beings for your entire adult lives. Profiting from it. Against my better judgement I granted you mercy each time I was victorious. A mercy not repaid to me or my subjects…"_

 _"Foreign whore!"_  One rather brave young master shouted.  _"You and your eunuchs and sellsword cocksuckers will never subjucate us!"_  Drogon's angered screech silenced him.

Of a regal demeanor till then, Daenerys' fair skin curled as she smiled. One of half triumph, half… satisfaction.  _"You are correct there, good master. I will not subjugate you."_  She let her words hang.  _"My mercy has reached the end of its tether. In its place will rests fire and blood."_  All three dragons hooted shrilly, deafening ears.

Realization dawned on the prisoners. Many pleaded for mercy, many shouted their innocence, still many just collapsed onto the ground in fearful heaps. Only a few stood tall. Stoic in the face of death.

Daenerys at least had some respect for them. The others were no more than insects. Not bothering with them anymore, she turned to her children.  _"Dracarys."_

Maws opening, all screams of the condemned were drowned out in the sheer fury of the dragonfire. Shooting out to envelop them in a cloud of red-orange that bathed all around it in a searing heat. Missandei and Tyrion, Varys and Daario, even the hardened warriors Barristan and Grey Worm looked away from the carnage, but not Daenerys. She stayed to watch the whole thing unfold. Watch the might of her dragons unleash fire and blood upon her enemies.

Tyrion and Barristan counseled mercy the night prior to the battle upon her return, but Daenerys refused.  _"Did they give mercy to the children they crucified? To the innocents they slaughtered?"_  She'd asked them. The answer spoke for itself, and Daenerys gave the same mercy back to them.

It was over in barely a minute, nothing but a pile of ash remaining where three dozen men once stood. The dragons let out one collective roar before leaping into the air, massive wingbeats propelling them out of the fighting pits. Once they had disappeared, Daenerys calmly motioned to her bloodriders. Hands resting on her abdomen, she descended the steps and walked towards the exit, advisors in tow.

* * *

Barristan exchanged a glance to Tyrion as they followed their Queen into their Queen's solar. Daenerys strolled out on the balcony, leaving everyone inside. She stared out over Meereen, seeing her children dance with each other in the distance. Her palms rested on the barrister before her, her eyes shot over to the still smoking ships of the former masters. The sight did provide some relief, and witnessing the destruction of the masters was an interesting feeling as well. Never had she fully enjoyed using her dragons for death, yet watching the masters burn down to their bones allowed her let a breath she'd been holding for some time.

Then her eyes set West, over the vast sea, unable to see to the other side. She wondered what lies on the other side. Tyrion had told her some things, but none of that portrayed enough to actually know. She couldn't relate to his words. Still it excited her somewhat, being able to finally cross the sea. The unknown of what she'd find there unsettled her though. Oftentimes she'd call Westeros her 'home' despite the fact she'd never set foot there. After being born on Dragonstone, she was taken directly across the Narrow Sea for safety. Of course, she had no memory of her ancestral seat. The only things she knew about Westeros was the things she'd been told. Which felt unnatural given she was supposed to rule over them.

Feeling a presence behind her, she turned. Tyrion stood there, he spoke, "We are going to begin now, My Queen."

Daenerys didn't answer, only shifting to go back inside, her dress whipping. All of her advisors sat around a long table in her solar, she didn't sit, just resting her hands on her chair at the end. Everyone looked to her, she said, plainly, "Don't let me hold you all up."

Everyone of importance inside her camp gathered there. Ser Barristan, Tyrion, Grey Worm, Missandei, and Daario. With two new additions, some days ago brought the arrival of Yara and Theon Greyjoy. They fled their homeland after their uncle Euron took over. They offered Dany their ships in exchange for help in securing Pyke. The extra ships were very welcome at the time, so she accepted. They all took a seat before her, she still stayed up.

Tyrion cleared his throat, laying palms on the table, "With the new ships from the Greyjoys, we'll be able to transport the vast majority of our troops."

"Everyone?" Dany asked, smirking slightly.

"Yes, My Queen," Ser Barristan answered. "Dothraki, Unsullied, and… the Second Sons."

Daario eyed the Queen, feeling confident, but much to his dismay she looked away. Though she said, "Good."

"Where are we headed with said ships?" Yara spoke up.

"Dragonstone," Tyrion said.

"Doesn't Stannis hold it?"

"No, not for months, he needs the men elsewhere," said Barristan. "He used it as a stronghold for many years but it never meant enough to him to keep men there to hold it."

"He needs all the men he can get with him," Tyrion added.

"And where is he?" Dany inquired.

"Somewhere in the Riverlands, we don't know specifically," Tyrion shrugged. "But he's most likely headed to the Vale to try to secure them to his side."

"Will he be able to?"

Tyrion sighed, "Most likely. His relationship with the Starks will be quite helpful I imagine."

"The Vale has the most intact army in all of Westeros along with Dorne," Barristan pointed out. "Neither of them have been in a battle since the Rebellion. We're negotiating with Dorne, while we have no contacts in the Vale"

"Doesn't matter," Dany said, tone unwavering. "Just more for Drogon."

Several of her advisors seemed uneasy at such sentiment. "Well… they won't outnumber us, it's just that the Vale has quite the calvary," Tyrion said.

"Better than thousands of Dothraki on horseback?" Dany asked, somewhat incredulous.

"I don't know, my Queen."

"Unlikely," Dany shook her head.

"What about Jon Stark?" Theon spoke up over everyone. "He just took the Twins, I heard."

"He's sworn to Stannis," Tyrion frowned. "I knew that boy once. But he's changed a lot since then."

"What'd you mean?"

"Well for starters he was a bastard."

"Is he not now?" Yara snorted.

"Stannis legitimized him," Theon told his sister.

"From what I hear he's quite the military leader," Barristan smirked, adding his voice to the discussion. "Tearing through the Boltons and Walder Frey."

"I heard he hacked through Walder with his own sword-"

"Enough about this Stark," Dany snapped. "If he's as good as you all say he'll bend the knee to his rightful Queen. If not no matter, him and Stannis are no match for Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal."

"Why don't you just take those three dragons and fly them to King's Landing?" Yara snorted. "The war would be over rather quickly, with Cersei at least."

Dany began to open her mouth to speak, but Tyrion was faster, "At the loss of hundreds of thousands of innocents. They'll be no one left for her to rule."

Yara scoffed, "No one would miss all those swineherds."

Tyrion pulled a face, "What? Women and children all-"

Dany held her hands up and raised her voice, "Enough! I will not take my dragons to the Red Keep. I don't want to rule a people that hate me, or that are nothing but a pile of ashes." Her… satisfaction from earlier only applied to her enemies, not helpless civilians. All her life, she's tried to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.

Tyrion looked at Dany and nodded, "Yes, the people will choose you. They can't choose you if they're dead."

"As we did," Missandei added.

Dany locked eyes with her best friend for a few moments, saying all she needed. Then actually began to speak again, "Once we make land, then what?"

"By the time we reach Westeros, it will have taken us at least a month if not more if the winds aren't kind," Yara told her.

"By then, Stannis will have likely secured the Vale," Tyrion surmised.

"Where will he go next?"

"Further South? We will know more when we land."

Dany huffed suddenly and turned her back, "Get everything ready, I want to leave as soon as possible… That's enough for today."

No particular order everyone began to shuffle out of the room, though Dany needed to speak with one of them in particular.

"Not you, Naharis."

She walked back out onto the terrace, waiting for Daario to follow, which he did. When she felt his form behind her she turned to him, Daario moved to stand next to her. The two of them had enjoyed many intimacies of late. But all that had to stop now.

"I hoped you'd wanted to see me," Daario purred, stepping closer to her.

But she put a hand on his chest, "Ser Barristan wants me to leave you here, Lord Tyrion as well."

He laughed, "But you told them no."

"Not because of the reasons flooding your brain right now," Dany said, taking her hand away.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll come with us West, but you won't share my bed."

Daario scoffed, backing up, "You're letting those dusty cunts tell you what to do?"

"No one tells me what to do," Dany warned, pointing a finger at him. "But they are my advisors for a reason. I wouldn't allow them to speak to me if I didn't value their advice. I can't be spending nights in bed with a sellsword."

"Why not? You don't think Kings and Queen don't have lovers?"

"Count yourself lucky I'm bringing you at all," Dany's voice turned stern. "I certainly don't have to. But I see no reason to leave men that fight for me here when I'll need them across the sea. You will serve as my sword, as you have before."

Daario crossed his arms, "I'll kick that fucking Imp."

"You'll do no such thing," Dany sighed. "Across the sea, I'll need to make allies, and the best way to secure an alliance is with marriage."

"Who are you going to marry now?"

"I'm not sure," Dany replied, turning her head to Meereen.

"Some old lord?"

"I hope not."

"You don't have to, you know?" Daario said, entreating on her space again.

She didn't look at him, "I've heard enough, you can go." He rolled his eyes and stepped off. When he moved away she added, "Send for Ser Barristan, I need him." Resting in her loosely closed palm was the pin for her Hand - the old knight was the only one she could trust to give it to.

There was a pause. "Yes, my Queen." His tone was frosty, bitter.

Daenerys realized out she really did not care much for the sellsword. She sighed and returned her gaze to the vast sea before her.

Feeling surprisingly anxious to cross it on the morrow.

* * *

Running his hands along the grey stone of the battlements, Stannis gazed upon the massive spires of Harrenhal castle. Stabbing into the sky. Harren the Black's attempt to defy the very gods themselves.  _Fat lot of good it did him._  The gods struck him down, their fury being that of Aegon the Conqueror atop Balerion the Dread. Even now, the melted stone rested atop the ruined towers - a grisly corpse visible to all as a reminder of Targaryen greatness.

The same Targaryens and dragons that were due to arrive in Westeros some time in the future. Such was where Stannis' mind was - Davos spoke to his side, retelling tales of victories Stannis and his armies had won. How they ended up from a broken mess on Dragonstone into an army that had conquered everything north of the great Harrenhal castle.

_Not enough. Never enough while the dragon exists._

"... and Lord Stark will be with us within the fortnight Lady Stark only days after from Winterfell."

The King managed to hear the last sentence. "Lady Stark?"

"Aye, the Lady Sansa. She told her brother that her presence would help with negotiations to secure the Vale's loyalty. With Lysa Arryn dead they'd be more inclined to break their neutrality and support our claim to the throne."

The Vale. Untouched masses of fresh troops, scarred not by war. Thousands upon thousands of them.  _If I am to defeat Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, I will need the capitol._  If treating with Petyr Baelish and giving into his demands was needed, then he would do what was needed. "Good. I look forward to hosting Lord Baelish."

Davos raised an eyebrow. "What are you willing to concede to him?"

"Whatever is necessary." The King took one last look out at the God's Eye, letting the gentle rippling of the dark water calm him. "I shall take my leave now. I suggest you do the same after a long ride here."

"Of course, our Grace."

He found her by the fire. She's closer to it than Melisandre. Stannis wasn't surprised. The true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had been a more devoted convert to the Faith of R'hllor than he - even after he had seen the truth at Hardhome, she bade the life-giving flames a greater devotion. Stannis was hard, dispassionate in the face of his destiny. Selyse… she had the zeal and fanaticism for the both of them. "My Queen," he said, stepping close to her. Reaching to touch her shoulder. "You should get your rest. The delegates should arrive on the morrow."

"I can see in the fire, my husband." Her voice was faraway, eyes wide… almost alight. "I see greatness for you. For us."

Gently pulling her to him, Stannis gave his wife a kiss on the forehead. He hadn't laid with her in years, but still respected the woman who had given him his beautiful Shireen.  _Even if only Davos and I see it, she is beautiful._  "I know, my dear. The sword standing athwart the world, bading the night to halt."

Her lips contorted into a wishful grin. "You will have a son, my King. A proper heir to claim your legacy."

"It is of no consequence, wife. Shireen will marry and produce an heir whom I will adopt as my own. Our line will live on."

Selyse hissed, turning away. "My… daughter. I was too weak, under the sway of the false gods of my father and brother. The Lord punished me for that… punished me with a monster…"

The back of Stannis' hand silenced her. Bright red handprint marring her pale cheek. "Do not call my daughter a monster," he ground out. "One more time and you will die."

Silence roaring through the chamber for what seemed like hours, finally Selyse fell to tears. "Forgive me, my King… as I said, I am weak." Her head fell into her hands. "I just worry for you… about threats to you. Great victories have vaulted you back into true contention over your throne, and any even seeming weakness could destroy you. " Mood turning on a gold dragon, she snarled, pacing back and forth. "The lion bitch, currently sitting on your throne. The dragon whore, ready to finish what her mad father started…  _Jon Snow…_ " While each of the first two names were said with hate, Selyse saved the last for a particular venom.

Stannis furrowed his brows. "Lord Stark?" He had gotten used to a lot of his wife's rantings, casting demons at their enemies while holding up Melisandre as a great savior. Now though, Stannis was completely befuddled. "He is one of my generals, my Queen, not an enemy."

"He's plotting against you! I know that bastard is doing it!"

"He is not a bastard, my dear. I legitimized him…"

She waved it off. "That filth is still a product of the lust Eddard Stark had for a common whore. Give him a new name doesn't make him any less of a greedy, conniving bastard." Her eyes turned to him, wide with a wild fury. "Don't you see, my King… he is going to betray you."

Turning away, Stannis snorted. "You're as mad as the Mad King."

But Selyse wouldn't let it go. "No! You must listen to me!"

"You accuse my most loyal supporter of treason? You're delusional if you think the man that helped win my comeback… win the North, Riverlands, and now on the cusp of the Vale as well…"

"That's my point, my King!" Eyes hard, Stannis nevertheless turned to allow his wife to get the rant out of her system. Selyse jumped at the opportunity. "You won everything to get you here, but I hear what the men say. I hear them speak not of the Stag of Fire, but the White Wolf. The 'Wrath of the North screaming south from the wall like a blizzard.' Saving his siblings and avenging his father and brother. Killing all that wronged House Stark…"

"He's done that, and I am proud of the lad." Sincerity dripped from Stannis' voice. The boy was like the son he always dreamed of having. One he couldn't have, that Robert was too drunk to see he didn't have, and Renly was too busy buggering boys to care about having. "When Davos decides to head home to his family, Jon Stark will be my Hand and we will defeat the night together. Rebuild this broken land together."

Selyse stared at him as if he had three heads. "No… you don't see. He is slowly turning your men against you! Making them love him, not you! That bastard is doing what he's doing best, coveting a trueborn's birthright and stealing it…"

"I've had enough of this," Stannis growled. "Do whatever you wish. Sleep, brood, rant, or go to the Seven Hells for all I care. I am going to sleep, and won't hear another minute of this rubbish." Thankfully, she had the sense to shut up before he did something he'd regret.

 _Perhaps she is right…_  a little voice deep in his mind expressed.

Stannis shook the thought.  _Rubbish._  The King fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Dany is on the way people, for reals this time. I'm sure many of you have your theories as what's gonna happen. I can firmly say that you probably not even close. It's gonna be wild, and you're gonna be blown away. Not that we're trying to 'subvert your expectations' or anything, we're not. But you won't see it coming.
> 
> Longclaw: Yep, Dany is really DarkDany here. Bringing fire and blood to those that cross her. Granted, she is one of the heroes, so don't worry bout it ;)
> 
> Daario is not a character I like, but his going to Westeros will be very important.
> 
> Sansa here is what we've wished Sansa to be: loyal to Jon but conscious of the limitations they both have. He's the leader, she's the political power player behind the scenes protecting him. As for Osha and Selyse, we aren't lazy in finding roles for our characters like Dipshit and Dumbfuck.
> 
> Be sure to check out my new story, My Father's Son!
> 
> Let us know what y'all thought in a comment.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	17. Harrenhal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Final chapter before the beginning of the big stuff. I'm stoked for all of it, but there still needs to be the chapters of discussion and planning first. Your wait will soon be over, I promise.
> 
> Good news! My Rhaegar/Lyanna story has finally been published! It's called My Father's Son! Everyone be sure to check it out! :D
> 
> BRuh4: Hiya there folks, thankfully it hasn't been too long. We're so close to the big events, I hope you're as excited as we are.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

"Are you nervous?" Jon asked from beside Arya, watching as the first of the Winterfell party rode into their camp. Direwolf banners fluttering in the wind.

Looking up at him, Arya sighed. "No, not nervous." Not the complete truth, but Arya's life had been filled with shades of grey. "I love her, but Sansa and I never got along and I don't expect it to change."

Jon sighed. "She's changed greatly, like both of us." He cleared his throat. "The lone wolf dies, Arya."

"And the pack survives." Her lip curled up. "You know just what to say, don't you?"

He grinned, spotting his other sister. "I try, though I'm not a bloody poet."

Dismounting her horse with ease, as far a cry from the romantic, giggling maiden that had first left the North so long ago, Sansa stepped gracefully forward until she was face to face with her brother. Without hesitation he embraced her, kissing her cheek. "I'm glad to see you again, sister."

"Same to you, Jon." She pulled back, gazing at him with conviction. "You avenged Robb and mother."

A firm nod. "I did. It felt good." The darkness coursed through him every time the death of Walder Frey replayed in his mind - Jon seemed to revel in it. Though he felt guilty at times for enjoying such darkness and bloodlust, he never regretted killing the old cunt. He'd do it again, gladly.

From the steel in Sansa's blue eyes, she understood and approved. "Only one remains." Cersei. At last, Sansa's gaze met Arya's. The two sisters sizing each other up for the first time in years - since they were at each other's throats more often than not. "I see that you are well, after your fight."

"More or less," Arya shrugged, emotionless. Her grey eyes narrowed. "Do I have to call you Lady Stark, now?"

Sansa's lips remained flat. "In public, yes." Suddenly, the corner of her mouth curved upward. "But in private I'll make an exception for you." Both sisters bursting into huge grins, they practically jumped into each other's embrace. "I missed you, Arya," Sansa breathed into her hair.

When the older sister pulled back to look at Arya, she expected a continued smile. Instead, the younger girl raised her eyebrows, and cocked her head to the side. The momentary joy of the embrace gone, Arya said, "You haven't changed a bit."

Sansa frowned, backing up fully, "You've been gone a long time. A lot has changed."

"Same old Sansa I see," Arya shrugged, putting her hands behind her back, shifting a bit.

"Perhaps it's just that I'm better at acting like a normal person," Sansa smirked.

"I've never been normal."

Wrapping his arms around both of his sisters, Jon laughed at the whole exchange. "Come on, lets get back on the march. We're less than a day away from Harrenhal."

Several hours later, Sansa narrowed her eyes at the massive spires that made up the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Although for her it wasn't the impressive size of Harren the Black's undoing or the melted stone that served as a reminder of the dragonfire that roasted him and his line alive that perturbed her, it was the fluttering mockingbird banners that flanked those of the flaming stag heart ones that served as Stannis' sigil. "I didn't know he still controlled it," she murmured out loud, thinking no one could hear her.

Turns out someone did. "Who still controls it?"

Sansa couldn't help but snort, a ghost of a grin forming on her face. Arya's senses were as sharp as Ghost's - she should have known that as long as her younger sister rode at the head of the Stark column with her and Jon, anything said would be heard by her. "The banners on the walls."

Arya's brows furrowed. "Stannis never controlled Harrenhal. I know, I was here at the time." The memories of being a prisoner here were not ones she wished to remember - but the north did remember.

"Not the stags, the mockingbird. That's the sigil of House Baelish."

Her sister frowned darkly - Baelish another memory she would rather forget. Jon, meanwhile, clicked his tongue. "Looks like Littlefinger made quite a haul for himself. The Vale and Harrenhal." A frown crossed his lips as the column grew closer and closer to the massive gate. "I am not looking forward to this. Snakes like him disconcert me."

The guards atop the walls were ready for them. "Open the gate for the White Wolf!" they shouted, many gawking at the infamous northerner. Wanting to be able to tell their grandchildren they had once caught a glimpse of the Wrath of the North.

Sansa leaned towards her siblings as the gate opened, her words for them and them alone. "Let me do most of the talking, please."

"We can speak for ourselves, Sansa," Arya huffed.

"This isn't a comment on your abilities, sister, or your intelligence. But Littlefinger is… slippery. Bluntness doesn't work with him. He is a snake, yes, so you also need to be a snake." She took in Arya's… grudging respect and Jon's… Jon wore a pained look. The events of the last few years had hardened all of them, and it was left to Jon to accept most of the grief and blame - for all four of them, Rickon included. It hurt Sansa, and was endearing at the same time. Offering him a smile, she reached out and patted his hand still on the reins. "The pack survives, Jon."

This earned a return smile from him and Arya. "Aye, it does."

While the main body of the Northern forces moved towards the massive camp growing on the tourney grounds outside Harrenhal, the three Starks proceeded with their detachment of twenty household guards towards the receiving ground outside the inner wall of the keep. Waiting there were the King, Lord Davos, Princess Shireen, and several of the Baratheon Kingsguard. Without prompting, they all dismounted their horses and knelt for the King. "I present you the victorious Northern Army, Your Grace."

"Rise," replied Stannis, hiding the smallest of smiles - such was high praise from Stannis. He never smiled. Davos and Shireen were beaming. Taking stock of the two women, Stannis nodded. "Lady Sansa, welcome to Harrenhal. I am glad we could meet once again."

Sansa added another curtsey. "The pleasure is mine, your Grace." Catelyn Stark hadn't skimped on teaching her eldest in the fineries of southern etiquette.

Stannis' eye turned to the smaller woman. "And this must be the Lady Arya. Your brother told me how much of a spitfire you were."

Grey eyes inspected the King head to toe. "My father died supporting your claim," she said simply. Sansa glared sharply while Jon sighed. "But you helped our brother right the wrongs of the past. That earns my support." Both of Arya's siblings visibly relaxed.

A snort left Stannis. He may have been hard, but also fair. "Shireen, please escort the Ladies to their chambers."

"Of course, father." The cheery princess motioned for Sansa and Arya to follow her, which they did after each kissing Jon on the cheek.

Soon, it was just Jon, Davos, and the King. "Lord Stark," Stannis greeted, clasping hands with Jon.

Jon smirked, "It's good to see you, Your Grace."

"You've been busy," the Stag remarked.

"All in your name," Jon replied, gesturing towards the gates of Harrenhal at the Northern and Tully army massing outside. They both began walking. "For the most part, that is."

Davos chuckled. "All expected. Walder Frey did kill your brother."

Jon's eyes darkened. "Frey deserved every bit of what he got." Neither of the others disagreed. "Where is her Grace?"

Stannis grunted quietly under his breath, limping slightly, his leg still ailing him - Davos and Shireen had chided him about it, but he still refused to carry a walking stick on all but the worst days. "The Queen isn't feeling well," he answered cryptically, leaving it at that. "I expect your sister will assist with securing the Vale?"

"Yes, I've already spoken with her about it."

Stannis grunted, "I don't look forward to dealing with this snake… Baelish. I want to be done with this as soon as possible."

"I feel similarly, Your Grace," Jon nodded. "I don't trust Littlefinger."

"Baelish is her uncle by marriage," Davos commented. "Certainly there's a family bond."

Scoffing, the King gave him a sharp look before turning back to Jon. "Lord Davos hasn't made the acquaintance of Lord Baelish. At least your sister told you enough about him. The man is worse than a snake… I'd rather deal with a viper than he," he explained for Davos' benefit.

The Hand nodded, understanding enough. "I've dealt with enough people like that. They'll be loyal enough if you remain the winning side. At this point, we are winning."

"I'm not so sure about that." Stannis grimaced as his leg twinged, but they kept walking. "My letters to Highgarden and Sunspear were rebuffed."

Jon frowned. "I would think Dorne and the Reach would wish to defeat Cersei."

"Oh they do, but they are siding with Daenerys Targaryen," Davos chimed, catching Jon's sudden stiffening. "She hasn't arrived yet, but it appears we have a three-way conflict coming."

The discomfort of the King was growing and growing, but Stannis was stubborn. "Which is why we need the Vale in addition to the North, Riverlands, and my Stormlanders. I have a plan, but need Littlefinger and his troops to even hope for victory."

Mind still on the image of the silver dragon from his dreams, it took Jon a few moments to respond. "Don't worry, your Grace. If there's anyone up to the task of securing you those troops, it's Sansa." He trusted her implicitly, and the King and Hand trusted him with the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

The maesters said that the great hall of Harrenhal was where Harren the Black and his sons hid during Aegon the Conqueror's assault upon the castle, praying that the defenses would save them. It didn't work, Balerion the Black Dread engulfing the room in a tongue of flame so hot that it melted the very stone. The ill-fated Mad King of the Riverlands didn't even have a single ring left to identify where in the hall he had died. When Aegon gave the castle to a loyal follower, he commanded that the melted spires be left as a warning to those that defied House Targaryen. The great hall had been rebuilt, however, and with high coffered ceilings and the most brilliant of stained glass, Jon had to admit it was a beauty.

Given the size of the retinues involved, this was the only room considered to hold the parlay. Stannis sat at the head of the table, joined by the Queen - the first time she had been seen in public since the royal couple arrived at Harrenhal - and Ser Davos. Directly adjacent were the Stormlands, represented by Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall, and the North, represented by Jon, Sansa, and Arya. To the left of the North were the wildlings under Tormund and Karsi while to the right of the Stormlanders were Edmure and Brynden Tully's Rivermen.

And finally, directly opposite the King, was the Vale. Robin Arryn sat at the head, but it was clear by his short attention span that those that flanked him were the real powers to be in the Mountain Kingdom. Yohn Royce of Runestone was well respected - Lord Protector Petyr Baelish on the other hand…

"Well, I must say Lord Stannis," grinned the minor Lord that had ended up one of the top powerbrokers in the Seven Kingdoms. "You certainly have a talent for pulling victory out of the jaws of defeat."

The scowl on Stannis' face deepened. Most took it as a sign of disapproval and disgust - while there was plenty of that, Davos and Jon knew the King's leg was acting up again. It had been fine for a moon turn, only to be soiled again only days before. "I shall take that as a compliment," Stannis finally stated. Say what one wanted, he had grit. "But it's King Stannis."

"You shall refer to the one true King of the Seven Kingdoms by his honorific, Lord Baelish," Davos said firmly.

Littlefinger was not perturbed. "He is not the King of my dear goodson, Lord Arryn. Not yet at least." The same unctuous, manipulative smile crossed his face. "That is the question that we are here to settle."

"What I don't understand is how we're expected to treat with Wildlings," scoffed Lord Royce, directing an accusatory finger at the clustered chieftains and magnars. "They are nothing but thieves and savages."

Angry growls came from the Free Folk. "Well, what do we expect us to do?" Karsi spat. "Stay in the desolate True North with barely any food to feed ourselves after all of you southerners walled us off?"

"Yes," commented Edmure Tully. "My sister wrote to me about all the Wildling raids in the North. As far as I'm concerned the only good wildling is a dead wilding."

"How's about I show you what we Thenns do to prissy cunts," snarled Sigorn, an uproar nearly ensuing.

Jon shot out of his chair. "Silence!" Heads turned, most in shock, at the normally quiet Lord of Winterfell erupt in a sudden fury. Selyse glared, Stannis and Sansa nodded in pride, while Davos and Arya almost split their faces open with their smiles. Eyes meeting those of every high lord assembled, Jon was prepared to play the adult in the room. "Lords and Ladies, we are here not to squabble like children. Only our enemies win when that happens."

Smalljon Umber smacked his palm against the table. "Aye! Do ya' cunts want fuckin' Cersei Lannister fuckin' her brother in the Red Keep forever?" If there was someone that all of them hated, it was Cersei. House Lannister murdered Jon Arryn, burned and raped through the Riverlands, killed Ned Stark and Robb Stark, gutted the Stormlands' favorite son, and fought the Friend of the Free Folk. All wanted her head on a pike.

"So I take it that not only do you wish us to pledge to you, your Grace," Littlefinger deftly moved to Stannis, while keeping an eye on Jon… and Sansa. "But also to fight to defeat Cersei and secure your throne for you?"

"Yes," the King responded. "I almost took King's Landing before."

"Almost is the keyword there, your Grace. What makes you think you can take it again?"

Stannis pursed his lips, fighting a stabbing pain in his leg. "With my capable Hand, Lord Davos, and my Master of War, Jon Stark…" Jon's eyes widened at the new title bestowed upon him. Arya punched his hip as a belated congratulations. "We have liberated the North from the Kingslaying Lannister lapdogs of House Bolton, crushed the Kingslayer in the Riverlands, reclaimed the Riverlands for House Tully, and wiped out the traitors of House Frey. Our army stands ready to deliver the final blow and take on Cersei."

Littlefinger nodded. Good points all. "Well, if that is the case why do you need the Knights of the Vale? We can bend the knee when you have the Iron Throne."

"Daenerys Targaryen sails for Westeros," Davos answered Littlefinger's question. "She has a Dothraki horde, crack slave soldiers, and three dragons. If we are to survive her wrath, we will need a united front."

"Dragons?" Lord Arryn's interest was peaked. "I want to see the dragons, Uncle Petyr!" Many of the Vale Lords shifted uncomfortably at their Lord's… immaturity.

The Lord Protector took it in stride, ruffling the boy's hair. "In time, Sweet Robin."

Wanting to spare his Lord the smirks of the Northmen and Rivermen - and outright laughs of the Free Folk - Royce stood. "You don't mean to pit us against a dragon?"

"The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors, Lord Royce." No one had seen Melisandre enter, but there she was, stealing the show. Long red hair shimmered as if literally alight, eyes burning. Boring on every man and woman present. "Only by banding behind the Prince that was Promised may we defeat our foes and bring the dawn."

Royce scowled. "I'm well aware of your strange cult, Red Witch."

She met his gaze without shrinking. Strong and proud. "A terrible war is coming, my Lord. The one true deity has preordained it. Those who do not stand with the Promised Prince are doomed to hellfire the likes of which Westeros has never seen."

"I will not allow superstition to draw my knights into another Field of Fire."

"The Field of Fire is coming regardless!" Stannis thundered, shooting out of his seat in spite of the pain of his leg. "She is the Mad King's daughter! She burned thousands, murdered thousands more! The foreign whore will kill us all if we do not stop her, and Cersei is too mad herself to do it! It can only be me!"

Silence beginning to descend on the assemblage, Sansa looked around. Littlefinger seemed little swayed, only a smirk on his face. A quick glance over at Jon to nudge him into the discussion, to talk about the Long Night - but her brother was lost in something. Thinking, brooding, far away. He sometimes was like this and Sansa had always dismissed it, but a pattern was now emerging. Every time Daenerys Targaryen was mentioned, he'd withdraw into brooding.

Never mind. This was best dealt by her and her alone. "My Lords and Ladies, I know you may not trust his Grace. Nor my brother. Nor even myself, but there is a man whose honor stood the test of time - even in death." Feeling Littlefinger's leer upon her, she resisted the feeling of revulsion to continue. "My father fought for what was right. He rose up against the Mad King. He left our home to serve as Robert Baratheon's Hand. When the Lannisters plotted against the realm, he fought to stop them. There was only one man he ever considered naming King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Gesturing to her left, she looked at Stannis in the eye, then to Littlefinger - as if addressing him personally. He wouldn't be swayed by appeals to honor and glory as the other Lords would, but a good game and advantageous position would sway him. "Stannis Baratheon is the man Ned Stark chose to serve. That proves his honor. He is the man Jon Stark chose to serve. That proves his justice. He is the man Brynden Tully chose to serve. That proves his strength. He is the man the Free Folk follow. That proves his greatness. If there is a man that can defeat Cersei, fight back the foreign invaders, and secure a lasting peace in the realm, it is he."

Jon was impressed. Arya was impressed. Even Stannis was impressed. The formerly sweet, romantic girl had been reborn into someone formidable in her own right.

The most impressed, however, was Littlefinger. "My dear Lord Arryn. I do believe we found our King." His smile found Sansa's, and both knew there was no sincerity in them - but as the Vale Lords bent the knee to Stannis, she knew it didn't matter.

Today was a victory. Tomorrow would be the day to worry.

* * *

"The news will travel fast, my lady," Lord Baelish remarked, matter of factly. "Ravens journeying to each of the Seven Kingdoms - to the free cities and beyond. Proclaiming that I, the Lord Protector of the Vale hath proclaimed the Vale of Arryn for Stannis Baratheon." He spoke with a self-aggrandized flourish, and at least in this case it was well deserved. He was one of the most powerful men in Westeros.

Arm looped in the crook of his, Sansa made sure to keep her voice guarded. Never giving anything away. "You've declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. And yet it seems the only person you've ever truly worked for is yourself." They walked along the walls of Harrenhal, ostensibly watching the sun set to the west, glittering over the massive lake.

It was beautiful. It was pure and natural. Neither of them cared, the schemes of men more prominent on their minds.

Littlefinger chuckled, as if charmed by a naive child. "I'd like to think of myself as returning to my original allegiance. Given the truth of Joffrey and Tommen's parentage, Stannis is the heir to King Robert Baratheon, the true King."

 _And based on legitimacy grounds, Daenerys Targaryen has a higher claim over all._  As she shivered at the chilly wind, Sansa knew not to say that. Taking Littlefinger's words on their face was always foolhardy - experience had left her capable of discerning the things Jon or Arya couldn't.  _Naive child indeed._  "Now Lord Baelish, sentimental are we?"

A smirk crossed Littlefinger's face. "Perhaps, Lady Stark. Perhaps I do feel some gratitude for the King and house that first allowed me to rise from a lowly Lord of the Fingers to great heights." He spread his free hand out, gesturing to the great castle they were strolling in.

"And yet it was Lady Cersei, if I recall correctly, that granted you Harrenhal after Janos Slynt was sent to the wall."  _If only Jon could have killed him there before he hung up his black cloak._  "One could think you still hold connections with her." A very dangerous game of words between the two, so seemingly friendly yet more akin to giants battling.

His smile only widened, stopping to stare into Sansa's eyes. A twinkling look that Sansa had seen in many men - longing, lust, desire. It made her disgusted, but one of the things learned long ago from Cersei and Margaery was how to mask such a feeling. "I understand how his Grace and others might think that, which is why I have provided him a gift."

Sansa furrowed her brows. "A gift?"

"Aye, something stolen from under Cersei's nose. Something the disgraced Maester who advises her created, a device that can be used to defeat Daenerys Targaryen's dragons."

"Oh?" Now this genuinely interested her. "May I see it?"

Littlefinger chuckled. Reaching out to stroke her cheek with his thumb. "My dear Sansa, you shall watch the demonstration with all the others." Still locked in an intimate moment, he leaned forward to kiss her head. "I can tell you don't enjoy being here, my Lady. That you wish to be home in Winterfell. With your brothers and little sister."

Even with how guarded she was, Littlefinger had an ability to pierce through Sansa's armor. It was what scared her the most. "I will go wherever Jon requires it of me. He is my brother and my Lord."

"Ah yes, the motherless bastard born of the south. The one the Northerners supposedly rally behind over the trueborn son and daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Also the one the bannermen of the Stormlands and Riverlands and the Wildling warriors seem to join the northerners in worshipping."

Sansa's eyes narrowed. "Your point, Lord Baelish?"

He pulled his hand away, but with his face inching closer and closer to hers. "Just a vision I have been having for the longest time. One of you, sitting right beside me… upon the Iron Throne." Littlefinger's lips were just about to brush upon Sansa's…

But she pulled away abruptly, allowing a slight revulsion to show upon her expression. "I shall see you at dinner tonight, Lord Baelish." Sansa began walking towards the nearest tower, suppressing a shudder.

* * *

"I'm glad we were able to come to an agreement with the Mockingbird so quickly," Jon said, leaning over to Stannis.

The King gave a grumble of agreement, then nodded, "Yes, I was as well." But he rapidly turned to the Stark, "Though you didn't think… he gave it to us so easily because he had… ulterior motives?"

"I don't know, Your Grace," Jon frowned. "From what Sansa's told me, he isn't to be trusted. But unfortunately, we needed his help."

"What are the possibilities of…" Stannis started, but then his eyes wandered around the room until he saw Sansa. He slightly motioned in her direction, "Installing your sister instead? She was paramount in securing the Vale after all."

Jon seemed to ponder on the thought for a few moments, mulling it around in his mind. Sansa had already been sold off to another family not once, but twice. Could he do that to her yet again? His initial thoughts told him she most likely wouldn't be elated about the idea. Because she would undoubtedly have to marry Sweet Robin. Though it would solve an imminent issue, Petyr Baelish. The more he thought about the man, the farther he wished to be from him. The man was positively repulsive, and the unknowns surrounding his true allegiances worried him.

"To be honest, I'm not sure how my sister would feel about such a thing," Jon replied, shaking his head. "Marrying a child, she's already been sold to a monster."

"Robin Arryn isn't a monster, Stark. Just a boy," Stannis said. "And with a woman as strong as your sister, he'd be merely a puppet for her."

"He's just… not quite the man I think she'd want," Jon sighed, his own eyes flying to his red-haired sister, talking with Arya. "I don't even know if she'd ever take man again. After what she endured."

"She's a woman of your house, and she should do her duty," Stannis said as if it was obvious. "It doesn't have to be a discussion."

"I know, Your Grace," Jon huffed, holding his hands up. "I just want to take her wishes into account."

"I see," Stannis rubbed his bearded chin. "You don't want her to be unhappy."

"Yes, of course."

"I understand," Stannis said. His mind filled with thoughts of Shireen being sent off to marry a stranger. "But despite that, if she can alleviate the burden of the Mockingbird… I must say I might insist."

"How do we know that she can?"

"She has some say over them, it was her word that was the final utterance they needed to hear," Stannis pointed out. "Baelish is Lord Protector. If Sansa the Lady of the Eyrie, she'd be able to take more control than him. I'm sure Lord Royce would be welcome to the idea. Surely Littlefinger isn't the most loved man there."

Jon leaned a bit closer, and whispered to the Stag, "He did push Lysa through the moon door, or so Sansa says."

Stannis frowned, "Truly?" At Jon's nod, he continued, "He did so to take control of the Vale. Seeing as they had just married, he'd be at the head… If that's true Stark, we must be rid of this man. There's no telling what he's capable of."

A silence settled between them, for some time the two of them sat quietly. Until Jon spoke, "What shall we do about the Dragon Queen, Your Grace?" He voice was hesitant and very uncertain.

"I… I don't know, at least not right now," Stannis replied, his voice low.

Not the sort of answer Jon was looking for, he sighed, "I suppose we'll have to think of something."

"I suspect she'll be very difficult to defeat," Stannis grumbled. "Three dragons… seven hells."

"Just like Aegon the Conqueror," Jon remarked. "Only he had three dragonriders. She only has one… I think that may be used for an advantage."

Blinking, Stannis offered one of his rare smiles. "I made the right choice when I made you Master of War. Those winged beasts will be far easier to take down without a rider controlling them." He leaned back in his chair. "Do you think Littlefinger's contraption would actually help?"

Jon shrugged. "I haven't seen it, so I don't know. It's better than what we have at the moment, however. Little more than King Loren and King Mern on the Field of Fire." By that, he meant nothing - both men knew that.

Across the way, Selyse eyed the pair. Her gaze narrowing harshly on them, she leaned forward to yell out. Going as far to open her mouth wide, though she stopped. Thinking better of herself than to openly call out her King. Though that didn't stop her from removing her deathly stare from Jon Stark's forehead, clenching of the jaw, and her hands tightening around the arms of her chair. Her fingernails digging out chunks in the wood. Only did she stop fully when she felt blood pooling under her nails, not the pain.

Nearby, Arya and Sansa engaged in conversation.

"I can't stand the thought of dragons flying over my head," Sansa shivered.

Arya didn't share the same sentiment, "What? You don't want to see a dragon?"

"I've gone this long without witnessing one," Sansa said. "Going the rest of my life won't be so bad."

Huffing, Arya crossed her arms. "Where's your sense of adventure, sister?" At the withering look Sansa sent her, she sighed. "Fair enough, but still. A real life dragon! Like in all the stories of old with Visenya and Rhaenrya Targaryen. Not much wonder left in this shit world, but there's still that."

"Wonder yes, but also fire, burning, death…" Sansa glanced at Jon, thinking of Rickon as well. "The last Targaryen King burned our uncle and grandfather. The last Targaryen Prince raped our aunt. What would the last Targaryen Princess do to our family?"

Frowning, conceding Sansa's point, Arya could only look down at her plate. "Perhaps Princess Daenerys can come to an understanding with Stannis." She shrugged. "Jon is young and unattached. Perhaps he could get a Targaryen Wardeness of Winterfell. Neutralize her, then their child could marry Stannis' heir?" Eyeing her with a raised eyebrow, both women knew that such a plan was more wishful thinking than anything.

The long oak doors sung open suddenly, and small blonde-haired boy strutted in clasping a raven scroll. Everyone quieted down as he entered. The child kept his head down, circling around the table to where Stannis sat. Once reaching there, he held the scroll out to the King.

Stannis stared at the parchment in the messenger boy's hands. "What's this?"

"Word from the South," the boy said, in a small voice.

Once the scroll was snatched from his hands, the boy just about ran anyway. Slowly, Stannis unfurled the paper and read the words within. His eyes scanned over it quickly. He grumbled, tossing it forward onto the table. Not immediately saying anything, and his face gave nothing away.

Jon leaned forward, "Your Grace? What happened?"

"The Dragon Queen is here."

The War of the Three Monarchs had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Ah... the introduction of Littlefinger, I wonder what he might get up to? Dany is finally making her way over the sea so fools better be prepared, right? Well, they're sure gonna try. Because she just might be the biggest threat to them right now. Many of you surely have questions about what going to happen moving forward and you can ask, of course, but we'll probably keep the suspense in the air. At least until the chapter drops, then we can talk more about it.
> 
> But yeah, don't freak out, just yet at least.
> 
> Longclaw: Littlefinger is always scheming as usual, but Stannis getting the Vale still is a coup for him.
> 
> With Dany here... Things are gonna get crazy ;)
> 
> Be sure to check out my new story, My Father's Son!
> 
> Let us know what y'all thought in a comment.
> 
> Tell your friends.


	18. Be a Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Greetings readers. All is close to the standoff we've all been waiting for!
> 
> BRuh4: Hey all, it's finally time. Strap in because it's about to go down. We've crafted an event (as far as we can tell) unprecedented to this point in GOT fics. Some of the stuff that happens in the next few chapters were outlined before we wrote the first word.
> 
> We're very excited to finally share it with you.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

Dragonstone before her for the first real time, reared a rare smile out of Daenerys. As she stood at the bow of her massive ship, seeing it poke through the horizon. Her palms tightened over the railing, itching to actually set foot on the land.

When her boot finally sank into the sand, her heart began to pound. As the waves crashed against the shore, she stepped on. The wind blew her hair and the dark garment she wore. Her camp slowed their pace as she moved. Though she suddenly stopped, crouching down to lay her hand on the sand. Rubbing her hand over the damp bank, taking pebbles into her fist, rolling them in between her fingers. She stood then, but kept her hand closed around the sand.

After walking a ways, they came to a giant gate on the sand, large faces of dragons sculpted into it. Dany stopped before the gate as her Unsullied passed by to open it. It took five men to push the doors wide. A few moments later, her ancestral home bursted through the skyline. Feeling a small smirk bounce across her countenance, Daenerys stepped on.

Next, she began the long climb upwards the stone stairs to the castle. Her pack still lingered behind her, watching as she went.

The dark drabness commanded the deary stone walls, as Daenerys strolled through the keep. Unexpectedly, inside they find an air of life, with accompanied lit torches along the walls, Dany's bloodriders stuck to her side.

Tyrion quickened his pace to catch up to Dany, "My Queen," he began, huffing quietly. "There might be some Baratheon bannerman still hiding here."

"I've suspected as much," Dany replied, dryly.

"They must have gotten stranded here," Ser Barristan suggested.

"Or perhaps they've just set a trap," Daario called out, hand tightening on his dagger. "The Baratheon King knew we'd come here, and there's twenty men hiding somewhere with crossbows."

Dany didn't respond to either of them, just turning her head to gaze upon another mural of a dragon on a nearby wall. This one depicting a large black dragon with a white-haired rider on the back of it. She liked that one.

After essentially tip-toeing through the already quiet halls, the group reached the floor to ceiling doors leading into the great hall. Daenerys stopped as the Unsullied moved forward to attempt to get it open for her.

Yet this time, the doors didn't move all the way open, barred from the inside. But just enough to alert the people on the other side. Immediately, they felt the presence of movement through the door. Shuffling, and the clanging of swords together, chainmail glinging, in response Ser Barristan stepped in front of Daenerys, sword drawn.

All went silent, no more noise from the other room. Until Dany moved out from behind Barristan, heading nearer to the door.

The Lord Hand reached out, "My Queen, what are you doing?"

Dany didn't turn to him, just held her hand up in response. She pressed her palm against the door, then her ear. Then she knew that there was in fact a number of people just mere feet from her.

"You're scared," she said. "I understand. You're not supposed to be here. But what happens now is your hands. Let me in, and bend the knee, or face the wrath of my dragons. Because do not be dismayed, this is my home and you are trespassing."

Glancing to Barristan, Tyrion shifted somewhat uncomfortably.

No voices came from the opposite side of the door, only moments later hearing the movement of the large object that blocked the door. Screeching against the stone floor, it sounded like a boulder rolling. Once the noise stopped, Daenerys uttered, quietly, "Throw your swords aside, and move away from the door."

After the sound of their swords hitting the floor, Dany moved aside for her Unsullied to step forward and open the door. A few moments later revealing six Baratheon bannerman shaking in their armor. Mostly boys, not much older than seventeen name days. The oldest among them stepped forward, this one did look to be reaching half-life. His grizzled face scowled, and in his hand, he still gripped a small blade.

Daenerys looked the man in the face, and shook her head. The man's scowl worsened, gritting of teeth, face reddening. The Queen was unburdened. Much to her camp's immediate dismay, she stepped forward toward the last armed Baratheon. The Lord Hand surged forward, but Daenerys again held her hand out to halt him. For some reason, despite the danger, Barristan the Bold stopped.

The Bannerman's eyes widened as Daenerys neared, though he didn't move. Even as the enemy Queen arrived mere feet from him. The Dragon Queen, right in front of him, he should stab her right on the spot. But his petrified by her piercing stare, her purple eyes paralyzing. Her feet carried her inches away, the blade even closer to her in his hands. She kept her eyes on him, still as a tree, and him trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Not spending on another second on the weaker man, she moved past him. The other Bannerman evaded her path at all costs. As she went, the older Baratheon loosened, falling to his knees, the blade falling from his hand. Barristan and the Unsullied flooded the room, taking prisoners.

Her ancestral throne before her, that truly meant more. She approached the seat carved into the rock. Uncaring of anything else in the moment, a small smirk appeared again.

She took the seat that was always supposed to be hers.

* * *

Guards throwing open the doors, Jon and Sansa stepped inside to find two figures hunched over a map table. At once, they bowed. "Your Grace," the Warden of the North said graciously. "Lord Hand Davos. To what do we owe the honor of your summons."

The Hand chuckled at the formality, while Stannis reacted not. "Come here, Stark. Lady Stark." Both complied, each taking positions across the table from the King and Hand. "I received a raven from Dragonstone. Apparently the skeleton garrison I left there surrendered without a fight to the Dragon Bitch."

Jon shared a glance with Sansa. One quite worried. "I won't begrudge them. Against three dragons and Unsullied legions, they didn't stand a chance."

"Dragonstone means nothing to me," Stannis waved it off dismissively. "The problem is that now we have her to deal with. Her and her armies."

"I'm sure this would be better served with others rather than myself…" Sansa began, only for the King to cut her off. She nodded. "What would you have of me, your Grace?"

It was Davos who answered. "Daenerys Targaryen has allies in Westeros, namely House Tyrell and House Martell. Allies with large armies that dwarf our own. You were in King's Landing last, and dealt with both Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand."

"I only knew the latter in passing, Ser Davos."

"Still, out of all I can trust you're it," Stannis answered, glaring at the map. "We have a narrow window until Daenerys lands enough of her foreign army to threaten us - so far she hasn't yet, and yet I'm still fucked since the Tyrells and Dornish are massing."

The operations officers had calibrated the figurines atop the map with precision based on the latest intelligence. As one of Stannis' veteran commanders, Jon could tell the exact size of each of the armies. They outnumbered the Tyrells, but not them, the Martells, and Cersei combined. Let alone the wild card that was Daenerys Targaryen. "You need to attack now, hit while you still have the opportunity." Jon stabbed at the map. "Annihilate the forces opposed to you one by one."

"There poses a problem," Davos countered, Stannis silent. "If we march against Cersei, she can bog us down in a siege or savage us in city fighting like the last time. If we target the Tyrells, we risk Cersei assaulting us from the rear in a desperate breakout attempt. She has the city walls, it gives her a flexibility we don't have… and that's not mentioning the Dornish."

"Dorne is in no hurry," Sansa claimed. "That was one thing I remember about Oberyn. They don't care about the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon peered at her. "They allied with Daenerys Targaryen."

She smiled. Jon was too honorable sometimes - just because he would carry out his oaths to the death didn't mean others would. "They has the same alliance during Robert's Rebellion, and delayed all the same. I expect them to support the Dragon Queen, but not rush."

Her brother was once again impressed with her level of knowledge. Far from the naive, romantic girl of before. "So, that still leaves the threat of Cersei…"

"See Davos," the King said suddenly, stilling conversation. "Has the Queen of Thorns mobilized all her banners?"

Davos shook his head. "No, your Grace. Several houses have sought neutrality. Why?"

A small smirk poked through his dour visage. "We will divide our forces." He leaned forward, repositioning the figurines to suit his stroke of genius. "Lord Stark will lead his Northerners, Wildlings, and the Tully army and take Hayford Castle in the Crownlands. Box Cersei into King's Landing. Meanwhile I march the rest of our forces to Highgarden."

Jon caught on quickly. "You'd have a mostly mounted command, which can cover more ground. Hitting the Tyrells quickly before the Dornish could arrive and annihilating a third of your opposing force." Aggressive, almost insanely so, but the divide between madness and greatness was often a fine line. Executed well, the plan could be a war winning move. "And Cersei?"

"We take Highgarden, then quick march to King's Landing and find a way to defeat Cersei's forces in the field. A victory in the south would rally the Stormlands truly behind me once more and we'd have an army fresh and motivated to crush that incestuous whore and get me the Iron Throne before the other whore lands." Stannis' blue eyes burned with triumph and ambition. He could taste his victory.

Sansa, leaning closer to Jon, glanced at the peninsula of Dorne. "Defeating the Tyrells and securing King's Landing could convince the Dornish to back off, especially if you offer them Cersei, the Mountain, and the Kingslayer as a gift. Compensation for the loss of Oberyn and Elia Martell."

"There exists only one problem." All eyes shifted back to Jon. "If you divide your forces, then Olenna's army is only slightly inferior to yours, my King. We cannot afford significant losses."

The burning triumph only roared higher, Stannis' grin taking on an eerie quality. "Lord Stark, allow me to take care of that."

* * *

Unsullied guard yanking open the door, the occupants of the Dragonstone war room all bowed at once as Queen Daenerys Targaryen entered. Black dress brushing along the stone floor, hands clasped together and silver chain across her shoulder and chest. Held in place by a three-headed dragon clasp. While not the leather battledress she had taken to wear, it painted a picture of a fierce warrior queen. Visenya reborn, if without the sword.

Behind her trailed Missandei, herself in all black. Grey Worm brought up the rear as they made their way towards the head of the room, Dothraki bloodriders fanning inside and taking positions along the walls. Hands clasped to their Arakhs. No one in the Queen's orbit was taking any chances anymore, and none of the small council begrudged her for the precaution.

Reaching the head of the table, Daenerys ran her hands along the gleaming ironwood. The cold stone. The bumps and ridges depicting the mountains and valleys of her homeland. Where she had been born, only to be ripped away as a mere babe, condemned to exile. Now, with her dragons and her armies behind her, Daenerys had returned. House Targaryen had returned. It filled her with a burning resolve.

Wordlessly, she scanned the various members of her council. Yara Greyjoy and her quiet brother, Ellaria Sand and her daughters, Olenna Tyrell leaning on her walking stick, Tyrion Lannister - barely able to reach the table - Lord Varys, Daario Naharis, Grey Worm, Missandei, and finally Ser Barristan Selmy. Hand of the Queen and her sworn sword, much like Ser Criston Cole had been for Aegon II, although her situation seemed more like Rhaenrya's. A motley sort, drawn out of the hodgepodge of alliances that brought her back to the place of her birth.

The sort that would deliver her victory.

"Alright." Her purple eyes gleamed with the triumph soon to be hers. "Shall we begin?"

The conflict immediately grew heated. Few phrases spoken before it descended into a melee of words. "You have to attack King's Landing now!" Yara Greyjoy stated, vociferously splaying her hands on the table. "Cersei is weak. Hit her before my brother arrives with his fleets and you'll be sitting atop the Iron Throne in a week."

"If you mean for her to use her dragons," Tyrion responded with a scowl. "Then thousands of innocents will die in the firestorms."

"I doubt you care, Imp," Daario shot back with a scoff. "I think what you're worried about your cunt siblings."

Tyrion bristled, but did not take the bait. "If Cersei were smart, and she is, already she is making sure there are plenty of smallfolk in the grounds of the Red Keep. Any attack will only cause massive loss of life."

"It's called war." Ellaria Sand sat in her chair, swilling a glass of wine and sounding bored with the whole thing. "If you don't have the stomach for it then crawl back to your sister's skirts and let the true highborns sort it out."

Narrowing his eyes, the Imp blazed a fury at Ellaria. "We know how you wage war. We do not poison little girls here. Myrcella was innocent."

"She was a Lannister." The Regent of Dorne looked incredulous. "As it seems most Lannisters are her Grace's enemies. As they are ours." She huffed. "Perhaps the sellsword is right about you…"

"Enough." A single word from the Dragon Queen stilled the argument. "Lord Tyrion is a member of this council, and you will treat him with respect." Curling her lips distastefully, Ellaria nevertheless obeyed. "We all have different motivations, different goals. But uniting us is both a desire for revenge and a desire to see a better world. I am not here to become Queen of the Ashes."

"I believe that is wise, your Grace." Eyes turned to Varys. "It seems that the Usurper Cersei has established a new series of defenses meant to fight your dragons." The Queen's brow rose, a flash of concern in her eyes for but a moment. "The songs are vague, but these sound like the same device that took down Meraxes during the First Dornish War."

With the Queen's dragons being their biggest asset, even the hint of them falling chastised the attack King's Landing at any cost proponents. Daenerys turned to Ser Barristan. "You've been quiet, Lord Hand. Anything to add?"

Lips pursed in a tight line, Barristan gestured his finger away from the capitol and towards Harrenhal. "Everyone is fixated on the Iron Throne, but that is not the main threat. Cersei is weak and without many allies. The problem is Stannis Baratheon."

Such had been on the minds of all involved, a sort of honest shock. Once a defeated joke that barely had any forces upon this very island, they had landed to find him in control of three Kingdoms, allied with a fourth, and with a host of Wildlings under his command. A proper force to be reckoned with. "I agree with Ser Barristan. Stannis is the greater threat," Olenna Tyrell chimed in, fanning herself. "His army is vast and undefeated, far larger if the negotiations with Petyr Baelish and the Vale prove useful."

"Send me and your forces to Harrenhal immediately, your Grace," Daario said. "With your dragons, we will turn his entire camp into the second field of fire."

Daenerys seemed to consider his boasting, fitting in with the Targaryen Fire and Blood. Several worried glances made their way across the table. "I would advise against it, your Grace."

The Queen's eyes found Theon Greyjoy. "Speak, Lord Theon."

"Stannis' Master of War is Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

"Jon Snow?!" Tyrion exclaimed, shocked.

Theon nodded. "A man I grew up with when I was a ward of Eddard Stark - almost like a brother. He is a fundamentally honest man, and I think he could broker an arrangement between yourself and Stannis."

Olenna snorted. "Stannis cannot be reasoned with. He killed his own brother with blood magic rather than allow any compromise without himself as King."

Peering curiously, Daenerys wondered why Theon would speak up for someone sworn to her enemies. Her eyes fell on her Master of Whisperers. "Lord Varys, please tell me what your little birds say of this Jon Stark?"

Closing his eyes for a moment, Varys kept his hands clasped under the folds of his Essosi-style robes. "My birds sing many different songs, your Grace. He was a bastard son of Ned Stark serving at the Wall, only to be legitimized by Stannis Baratheon and absolved of his vows. The northerners call him the 'White Wolf.'"

"White Wolf?" Daenerys suddenly remembered the white wolf in her dreams - wounded, alone, struggling and howling for help. The dream had plagued her all through the voyage to Westeros. Could they refer to this… Jon Stark? "Why is that?"

"He had a white direwolf by his side when he journeyed to Castle Black," Tyrion stated. "Perhaps that's it."

Varys sighed. "There's more to it than that - every victory Stannis has had since finds Jon Stark in a starring role, earning him the title of the Usurper's Master of War. He is also called the Wrath of the North for the systematic killing of all of the enemies of House Stark."

"Which include House Targaryen," commented Ellaria. "Your father killed his grandfather and uncle - unlike what the Ironborn says, he won't be disposed to even treat with you."

"How vital is he to Stannis' cause?" asked Missandei.

The Spider smiled softly. "The Wildlings see him as close to a saint. The Northerners adore him, he is respected among the Rivermen and Stormlanders. I dare say he is the most popular and skilled man in the entire army - more so than Stannis himself. They say he's quite a force to be reckoned with. Taking down scores of men in battle, he's said to be a master swordsman."

Drawing his dagger - naked whore spread-eagled on the hilt - Daario pointed at Harrenhal. "Let me take my best men there. I'll slit his throat and end him once and for all."

"Doing so would destroy any chance at ruling the North, your Grace," Tyrion rebutted. "Any defeat of Cersei or Stannis must be done on the battlefield."

Theon leaned forward. "Send me to confer with Lord Stark. Perhaps…"

Daenerys held up a hand. "I appreciate your efforts, Lord Greyjoy, but I only intend to confer with the Usurper's Master of War after he bends the knee before me." Theon drew back, quiet once more.

The floor was completely yielded to him, discussing a plan to ferry the Dornish to outside the capitol where they would join with the armies of the Reach to both besiege it and wait for Stannis. An Unsullied force would move to assault Casterly Rock with the Second Sons, while the Dothraki would land at Crackclaw Point and wait for Stannis to arrive, trapping him in a double hammer and anvil.

To say Daario, Yara, Ellaria, and Olenna were skeptical was an understatement. "That would take months just to set up," Daario exclaimed. "Didn't you say your uncle was sailing the high seas looking for allies?" Yara nodded. "We have to strike. Strike hard."

"That exposes us to Cersei's forces in the city," defended Tyrion. "A cornered Lion will lash out viciously, so we must proceed with caution."

"Jon Stark crippled her army, ripping away all Riverlands support it had. She'll stay bottled up," Olenna said bluntly. "That bitch was obsessed with the Iron Throne. It'll weld her in place, hoping that you and Stannis destroy each other. That's why you have to annihilate Stannis and absorb his army. Hoist her by her own petard." Her fading green eyes were still sharp and piercing. "You're a dragon. Be a dragon."

Conversing with her daughters, Ellaria gestures to the map. Sand Snakes shifting several markers that represented various Dornish Houses towards Starfall. "Recent news from home. Edric Dayne, intended to my niece the princess Arianne, has assembled our army at his keep. Subjecting us to march back to Sunspear to be ferried to Blackwater Rush would be inefficient."

Tyrion stroked his beard. "That allows more of the fleet to the ferrying of the Unsullied to Casterly Rock…"

"I do not intend to sail halfway around Westeros and back again," Daario hissed. "I may be the son of a pillow slave, but from what I can tell the Westerlands are as bare as a sixty year old whore. Easy to fuck, but why the fuck would you want to?" He smirked at Daenerys, who simply looked back to the table. The sellsword found more fertile ground among the Sand Snakes. "Let it rot."

Taking the moment to interject, Ser Barristan leaned in to whisper in Daenerys' ear. "Tyrion's plan should be followed as to the Reach and Dorne. Let them form a pincer to attack Stannis."

Nodding, Daenerys looked at Olenna. "Stannis' army numbers about forty thousand. That is less than the army massed at Highgarden, I believe."

Grimacing, the Queen of Thorns nodded. "Aye, by about fifteen thousand according to my spies. My grandson Garlan informs me that Lord Tarly is delaying while Lord Hightower won't move until the High Septon says the gods favor it." Daario laughed, while others sighed. "The Dornish army should allow us to dwarf his host, though. That and Randyll Tarly's arrival."

"He could attempt to destroy you."

"That would open him up to an attack from my sister," Tyrion noted. "He'll need to leave a screening force, which would negate his numerical advantage."

"Stannis will go for Cersei." Olenna seemed confident of her prediction. "One of his biggest mistakes was not going after Tywin in the Riverlands rather than attack King's Landing. However, he and Jon Stark crippled the Lannisters at Northhill. The Kingslayer's force is a shadow of its former self while Stannis has nearly forty thousand under his command. He's in a position to take the capitol, and he'll do so with all his forces, then turn on us."

"It would be mad to divide his army at this point, your Grace," Barristan spoke. "As it would for yours."

Nodding, Daenerys stared at the painted table. Watching, studying the various figurines on the table vast distances between them. She knew not of complex tactics or grand strategy, but the machinations of men and the folly of certainty in conflict were known to her. Hammered into her by countless years of hardship and suffering. And yet through it all she had faith in her instincts. Faith in herself.

In the end there was really no choice. "Grey Worm, Naharis, begin preparations to land at Crackclaw Point." The Unsullied commander nodded, while Daario grinned like a hyena. "You said, Lady Tyrell, for me to be a dragon." Daenerys smiled, violet eyes blazing fire and blood. "I think that is the best advice I have gotten since arriving here."

* * *

"I trust you enjoyed the demonstration, Lord Tarly." Refusing a walking stick yet again, Stannis stepped slowly through the gardens of Harrenhal. Before he had little time for such nonsense, but as the stress piled on he had developed a newfound appreciation of nature's beauty. "The Dragon Whore thinks herself impenetrable on her dragon. Dorne proved Rhaenys wrong and we shall prove her wrong."

With a reputation as an even harder, more sour-faced Lord than even Stannis, Randyll Tarly's contemptuous expression gave nothing away. It was his only face, so the King didn't find himself dissuaded. "I am a brave warrior, but the idea of dragons does… or did make me pause."

The image of the 'scorpion' - as Baelish called it - sending the massive projectile punching through stone. It filled Stannis with resolve. King. Prince that was Promised. Dragonslayer. Titles he would take to his grave as the greatest monarch the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. "My army is strong. Riverlands, North, Wildlings, Vale, and Stormlands. Generalized by myself and the White Wolf of Winterfell. You were the only one to ever defeat my brother in the rebellion, so I cannot think of a better man to serve as my general alongside Jon Stark."

Randyll slowed his pace, not wishing to burden the Stag King. "What does give me pause are the actions of my Leige Lord."

Stannis frowned. "Garlan Tyrell is a puppet. The real strings are pulled by the Queen of Thorns, and she is too blinded by revenge." Even he hadn't expected Cersei to detonate the Sept of Baelor. "Revenge is well deserved, but not allying with a foreign whore."

"She was born in Westeros." Word of Lady Tyrell's alliance with Daenerys Targaryen had hit Horn Hill like a comet. He had dutifully answered the call when Mace Tyrell backed both Aerys and Renly, but this was a different matter entirely. Randyll didn't know what to think. "Cersei has no claim. An adulteress and usurper. You do have a claim, your Grace, but so does Daenerys Targaryen."

"A claim her father gave up when she burned the Starks alive. When his rapist son stole and murdered Lyanna Stark." Pausing, Stannis turned to look the shorter Lord of Horn Hill in the eye. "You know what Aegon did to House Gardener on the Field of Fire. I understand the thought that surrender and bending the knee would save you, but the nobles of Meereen thought so. Daenerys Targaryen butchered them all, crucifying them and feeding her dragons with their corpses. Just think, have you done anything in your life that could raise her ire… supporting my brother perhaps?"

Eyes narrowing, there was silence as Randyll digested the statement. Any rebuttal hesitated - Stannis' words truly terrifying him for a moment. "I'm a Tarly, it means something. I do not betray my oaths. I do not kill my kin with blood magic."

Anger welling inside him, Stannis willed himself to be calm. The same indefatigable control that kept him in the game of thrones after all others had written him off. "Olenna betrayed her oaths when she allied with a woman raised in Essos. A woman that heads an army of slaves and horselord savages in to destroy everything before them. I do not wish to see this land burned and defiled, and I doubt the man I shall name Warden of the South does either."

At that, Randyll merely raised an eyebrow. "Warden?"

Stannis scowled, and grunted hard before stomping off, leaving the Tarly to his thoughts.

* * *

As his eyes opened wide, he knew it was morning. He hadn't been looking forward to this day, knowing what it meant. He'd be leaving his family again, they'd go North, he'd go in the opposite direction. It was possible that they'd never see each other again.

Jon had fully considered this the last time he left them in Winterfell. Yet he had been reunited with them again at Harrenhal. This goodbye would feel far more final. Even as he laid under the furs, he comprehended that fact.

Therefore, he took his time preparing himself that morning, once the cloak hung across his shoulders. It felt a bit heavier than usual.

Even the morning air didn't feel as good as it normally did, the cool breeze always calmed his senses. But not this morning, this morning it only made him sigh. Because of what the sun rising on that day truly meant. It laid heavy on his heart, but stiffened and pushed it down.

Stomping out into the camp, he knew that his sisters would likely be getting prepared to leave. Sansa's red hair made her stand out, he noticed her from across the encampment. As Jon approached, Arya breezed by him, giving his shoulder a light push.

"Where are you goin'?" Jon called after her, but Arya turned around to smirk at him before reaching Sansa. Before he got close he stopped, just so he could gaze up the sight. Arya and Sansa, appearing somewhat… friendly to each other? Not warm, by any stretch of the imagination, but compared to what Jon saw out of the two of them when they were young. This is quite different. They're able to hold a conversation without arguing. Often Sansa might even let a smirk, and Arya will constantly tease, though not with malice.

They almost look like sisters.

Arya clearly expected Jon to have joined them by now because she turned back in his direction. Causing Sansa to do the same, who said, "Jon, are you going to stand there all day?"

The eldest brother didn't reply, though he did finally walk over. The two girl's eyes scanned over him as he stepped through the mud.

"Always so sullen," Arya said. "What are you thinking about?"

Jon looked away from them, seeing his sister's horses getting ready to ride. "This could be the last time we see each other," he eventually said.

"Why would you say that?" Sansa asked with a frown.

Shrugging, Arya added, "It is possible."

"What is wrong with both of you?"

"I'm going to war, Sansa," Jon said, flatly. "For real this time, and this time there's going to be dragons. For the first time, I'm wholly uncertain of the future."

"You're not going to die, Jon," Sansa said, trying to reassure him. Her brother simply locked eyes with her, saying all he needed to. Suddenly, she crashed into him, wrapping her arms around him. Jon reciprocated the embrace, closing his eyes. Arya stood by, watching.

"Don't worry, Sansa," Jon whispered. "Don't worry about me, you all will be fine." He let Sansa go, and she back up to compose herself. While Jon looked at Arya, who did finally show a bit of emotion on her face. They hugged moments later, but not as long as with Sansa.

Arya huffed, and punched Jon on the arm, "Don't you dare die, big brother."

"I'll do my best."

Sansa return to them next, still sniffling a bit, "Just come back, Jon. Please."

"I will. I've been lucky so far," Jon could only say. Not having the heart to leave Sansa in suspense, even though he truly had no clue if he'd ever see Winterfell again. "The two of you just stay safe, nothing I do matters if anything happens to either of you."

"What about Rickon?"

"Rickon too," Jon smirked, shaking his head. "Give him my best."

The presence of others arriving near halted the conversation. Brienne and Podrick approached, Ghost trailing them. Tongue lagging out of his mouth as he scampered about, excited for a new journey. Jon turned to them and smiled, "Ah… Lady Brienne, Podrick, both of you ready?"

"What?" Sansa said.

Jon regarded her, "They're going with you. As well as Ghost."

"Why?"

"I'll feel better with all of them accompanying you."

Brienne stepped up, "I made a solemn vow to your mother, to protect you Stark girls. It's high time I make good on that vow."

Arya leaned her head to the side, and raised an eyebrow, eyeing Brienne, "As long as we get to spar."

"I think I can oblige that."

They didn't talk much as the sisters mounted up, Jon sat by looking on. Noticing Podrick's eyes lingering on Sansa longer than the boy probably realized. He wasn't sure how exactly he felt about that, but the lad was at least the most nonthreatening man he knew. Falling to his knees, he embraced Ghost, giving him one last flurry of scratches. "Take care of them for me, boy." Ghost merely licked his face, causing Jon to laugh. "Good."

The two Stark sisters, Brienne, and Podrick all on horses, with some accompanying Stark bannermen and the white direwolf neared the time to depart. The bannermen went on first, galloping into the forest, then Brienne and Pod. The two Starks and Ghost stayed behind a few seconds longer, looking back at Jon, who smiled and gave them a small wave.

Arya nodded and left, Sansa pursed her lips, calling out to Jon, "The lone wolf dies…" Before following after her sister.

Jon rocked back, huffing a bit.

"But the Pack survives."

Ghost merely howled.

* * *

The winds were strong that day. Howling fiercely over Dragonstone, tall grass of the volcanic fields blowing from the gusts passing westward towards the Crownlands. There were clouds above - large, fluffy dollops of white that obscured the winter sun. But behind to the east, cresting over the horizon, there was nothing. A sheet of blue, heralding a perfectly sunny week to descend over the lands that Aegon the Conqueror had looked at hungrily over three centuries before.

Exactly the same lands as Daenerys Targaryen looked at, violet eyes narrowed in resolve. To the right, Viserion took off from his perch atop the cliffs. Joining his brothers above. All three dragons enjoyed the winds, letting them soar effortlessly over their ancestral home. To seek the freedom only dragons could bear witness to.

"Cold this morning, your Grace."

Daenerys turned her eyes to see Lord Varys walk up beside her, huddled under his robes, shivering. She tightened her cloak around her petite form as well. "Yes, cold." It didn't really bother her, not with the blood of the dragon flowing hotly through her veins. The feeling of impending triumph. "You did well. Sending that last message about our lack of men."

Nodding, Varys rubbed his hands together - likely to warm them. "Information wins wars, your Grace." His ruddy face and narrow eyes stared out to Blackwater Bay before them. "It's time, isn't it?"

Before them were the hundreds of ships of the Targaryen Navy, each loaded to the brim with thousands of Unsullied, Dothraki, and Second Sons. Already having disgorged thousands upon the plains of Crackclaw Point, Daario and his scouts going ashore a week before. Enough to form the largest army Westeros had ever seen in many decades, ready to fight for the Queen they chose.

The smallest of smirks formed on Daenerys' lips. "It's time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: A lot went on in this one and it set up so much stuff. I hope you were paying attention.
> 
> Next time comes to the biggest event of the story so far. It'll be divided into two chapters, so I don't think we'll leave you in suspense for too long. But no promises.
> 
> Longclaw: All sides having military sense. It's shocking, isn't it?
> 
> Fundamentally, Stannis' position is the most precarious. He doesn't have the geographic strength of Cersei since what he holds doesn't confer much legitimacy. He also doesn't have the numeric strength of Daenerys since the only Kingdom allied to him that hasn't been tapped out is the Vale. Thus, he must be aggressive. High risk, high reward.
> 
> Let us know what y'all thought in a comment. If we get 30, we'll publish the big update on Thursday! :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	19. Dragons Don't Plant Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: This chapter was the original idea that made us want to do this story! I hope all of you enjoy :)
> 
> BRuh4: As promised, here's the new one because you guys flooded us with comments. We really appreciated it. I sure hope y'all enjoy what we put together. We've been waiting since May to share this one with you.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

Slashing through another neck of a Stark bannerman, Daario snuck further into the small encampment. They'd been tracking the scouts for miles. If they wanted their moments to stay unseen, tracks needed to be covered.

Three more bannerman sat around a fire, the one standing on the edge of the camp just fell to the ground. Feeling confident, Daario stepped out into the open. Seeing him, the Starks rose and drew swords.

"Tsk, Tsk," Daario said, waving a finger at them. "Don't even try it. We outnumber you." Then his outstretched hands signalled the seven other Second Sons come out of the brush. "Drop your swords."

Without hesitation, two of the men tossed their swords aside. But the third chided them, "What are you doing?! We can't surrender."

"Ah, but you should, the alternative isn't so good for you," Daario remarked, twirling his special blade through his fingers. With a huff, the final man dropped his blade. "Good man, I like a man who does what he's told." He turned to his men behind him and nodded, saying, "Leave one for me."

With that the Second Sons took off after the Starks, lashing down two of them to bits. The third took off running into a clearing nearby. Daario followed close behind, yelling after him, "Oh! We got a runner!" He pranced after for a while before burying his dagger in the man's back. The poor fellow fell on his face in the grass, skidding for a bit. Daario ripped his blade out only to force it back in the skull for good measure. Rising he wiped the blood off on his tunic, happy for a good day's work.

"It's better you fucks don't see us coming," Daario said to himself. "It'll be more fun."

* * *

The Stark, Tully, Wildling, and Crannogmen made been traveling for a fortnight at least since leaving Harrenhal. Their forces are mostly on foot so progress is rather slow. Just merely cutting off Cersei's supplies didn't seem like an insurmountable objective. But walking for miles and miles makes any man a bit reckless and careless. They reached a clearing. finally, strolling out into an open field.

Jon, Brynden, Edmure, and Howland rode out front, behind them Tormund and Karsi engaged in an argument about who would win in an arm wrestle. The fully volley of troops laid behind all of them.

"How long ago did we send out the scouts?" Jon asked to no one in particular.

"About two days ago at first light," Edmure replied, gazing over the open land.

"Shouldn't we have seen them by now?"

Brynden grunted and spat, "Aye. We shoulda."

"They most likely just got held up, they'll come around soon," Jon said, calmly. As if he was trying to make himself believe it.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Edmure huffed. "There's no one out here but us and farmers."

Trotting up next to Jon, Howland said, "So, why are we out here again?"

Jon smirked, "We need to cut off Cersei's supplies. There are many farms out here that supply her." They watched the lines of men marching through the rather beautiful, temperate day. Northerners belting out bawdy songs, wildlings scarfing down plentiful food and drink plundered from Crownlands knights loyal to Cersei… they were marching further south than Robb Stark had ever hoped.  _This is for you, brother._  Cersei was the last in the rogues gallery that wronged his family - unless Daenerys Targaryen could be grafted onto her father's crimes. "Cersei will be weakened, and when his Grace returns victorious from Highgarden, perhaps the lords of the Westerlands will…"

He was interrupted by Howland… who raised his finger. "Shhhh. Listen." There was nothing… "No, listen." At that point Jon heard it, a low rumbling from the hills to the east. "Lord Tully… are you sure we don't have to worry about those scouts?"

"King Crow!" It was Tormund, racing atop his horse. "The wargs! Saw a whole fucking horde comin' for us!"

"What?!"

"Black clad fuckers and swarms of horsemen. They'll be here soon!" As if confirmation, the rumbling had grown into a veritable thunder. Whoops and screams starting to boom like a wave.

"Nothin' to worry about?" the Blackfish snarled, smacking his nephew on the back of the head. "Just when I thought you had some fuckin' sense!"

Jon had no time to allow recriminations. "FORM UP! GET INTO POSITIONS! FACE EAST!" At their commander's direction, the other Lords raced towards their commands. All jolly marching and bawdy singing ceasing as they quickly formed into shield walls. Cavalry waiting at the flank.

It took less than half an hour before they saw their opposing forces. A solid line of black-clad pikemen, marching in lockstep towards them at an almost inhuman pace. A swarm of horsemen, screaming battlecries as they surged across the grassland. The might of Essos, gathered by the Dragon Queen to wipe them all out. Men trembled, men puked, fear predominating.

"Howland," Jon grimaced, knowing exactly that this was going to be the battle of his lifetime. "Take some of your men and get out of here."

"I can't leave," Howland said, somewhat flippant. "I'm with you."

"You have to go!" Jon insisted, grabbing the older man by the collar. "Get out of here and get a raven to my sister. Tell her what happened."

"You don't think…"

"Just go!" Jon exclaimed, not sparing another glance at Howland as he finally galloped away. His eyes stayed focused on the hordes of Dothraki and Unsullied streaming down the hill before him.

Brynden drew his sword next to him, "We can hold them."

"There's too many," Edmure said, trembling.

"We'll fucking hold them!" The Blackfish yelled. He may have started to yell commands if the noise the clambering Dothraki horses wasn't drowned out suddenly. A shrill screech filled the air. Everyone knew what it was.

A great fire-breathing beast poked through the clouds on the horizon. Ducking down closer to the ground, it looked as big as a castle. The black dragon neared the lines of bannerman long before the foreign droves did.

"Take cover!" Jon yelled as loud as he could.

But no one had any time to move, white-hot flames poured from the black beast. Incinerating a large chunk of Jon's forces, leaving only ash for the wind to blow aside. Gaps large enough for the Dothraki and Unsullied to exploit, their double quick trots and marches turning into an all out charge straight for them. Trumpets and horns blaring out the new orders as they took advantage of their Queen's entrance.

Flames bathing him in heat, nearly knocking him to the ground, Jon stared at the massive hole blown through his lines. Some men screaming, running in every which direction awash in the searing inferno. Some others shockingly still - a few stumbling a few steps before collapsing while most laid on the ground dead. And at the center of the strike was nothing but ash blowing in the wind. What had to be a hundred men, vaporized.

Unable to blink, either because of the ash in his eyes or out of sheer fear, Jon watched the dragon bank off. Petrified as more fire flowed, roasting more of his army. His mind immediately flashed to his vision in the flames that Melisandre showed him. A large black dragon burning Stark bannermen. It was true, the thought didn't seem possible at the time. Yet, here it is.

His commanders were breaking down. "Fuck!" Tormund clutched his head in his hands. "Did you see that?! Fuck!"

"We have to fall back!" Smalljon snarled in his ear.

"Hopeless, hopeless…" All Edmure could think of was King Mern Gardener, marching to his fiery death upon the Field of Fire.

Undulating cries of the Dothraki horde gaining closer and closer, while the sunlight gleamed off the spearpoints of the Unsullied phalanx plodding forward, Jon's attention was focused on the great black dragon. Wings flapping hard as it banked right. Atop its back, Jon could make out a thatch of silver hair, Daenerys Targaryen in the flesh. He had heard the rumors, how she was both brutal with her enemies but freed the slaves of Slaver's Bay.  _She won't burn her own men._  He made his decision.

Smacking the whimpering Edmure, Jon screamed at his command. "Charge! Get among the cunts!" Longclaw spinning in his wrist, the Wrath of the North leapt over the faltering shield wall and charged on foot at the onrushing Targaryen host. "CHARGE!"

Wide eyes just stared at the seemingly mad Lord of Winterfell, challenging Unsullied pikemen and a Dothraki horde all by his lonesome. It was crazy, it was reckless… it was the best fucking thing any of the soldiers had ever seen. "PROTECT YOUR LORD!" Smalljon bellowed, greatsword lifted into the air and leveled directly at the enemy. Northerners surging forth for their beloved White Wolf.

"Forward you cunts!" hollered the Blackfish, dragging Edmure as the Rivermen followed.

Tormund, along with all the Free Folk, merely screamed a piercing howl. Their trusted war cry, one that sunk fear into Crow, Northman, and Westerman alike. Anchored in the center by Wun Wun, they charged right for the join between the Unsullied right flank and the Dothraki.

Wind biting at her eyes, Daenerys clenched tighter to Drogon's spines. Gritting her teeth at the tight bank over the rolling hills of the central Crownlands. A place that her ancestors Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya had once soared over in their conquests - a conquest she would be attempting alone. It was sobering, the Last Targaryen facing the prospect of burning to death brave soldiers without any other to provide comfort. To provide a warm embrace to wash the pain away.  _You are the blood of the dragon._

 _A dragon does not plant trees._  Her nature, her blood… her destiny. She would not feel anger at herself for being who she was.

Musing interrupted by a hoot from Drogon, Daenerys followed his head - as if her son was gesturing to the battlefield. Peering down at the clashing armies, Daenerys couldn't believe her eyes. The Usurper's dogs… they weren't running away but charging directly into her forces. Slamming hard into them, breaking most unit cohesion for either side.  _Seven fucking hells!_  The Mother of Dragons wouldn't burn her own men.  _"Drogon, ilagon!"_  Her child roared and complied, plummeting towards the earth below.

Time seemed to stand still as the two hosts slammed into the other. Northmen and Wildings crashing into the line of Unsullied, phalanx shuddering with the frenzied bloodlust of the First Men. Their disciplined lines used to withstanding Dothraki charges, sellsword companies, or the light slave soldiers of Essos, the mighty fighting force were woefully unprepared as the men-at-arms and berserkers literally hacked and clawed through them. Yanking the front line by their spears or shields, axes, swords, and knives making quick work of them.

Mounted knights and horsemen of the North and Riverlands followed Larence Hornwood into the Dothraki horde nearly five times their size, screening the wildlings and their fellow Rivermen. Lances and greatswords scythed through the feared screamers and their mounts, strong Westerosi horses leaping over gory bodies of man and horse alike in their mad charge. Daenerys had proclaimed that the Dothraki would tear down the men in metal suits, yet none amongst the horde knew how truly difficult - and bloody - that would be.

While most of the archers followed Karsi's lead and surged forward to engage the Dothraki and Unsullied at point-blank range, a hundred brave souls had stayed behind. Loosing volley after volley at the unarmored sellswords and horsemen. Forcing the armored phalanx to slow to a crawl, shields up to protect themselves and losing their momentum against the attacking men-at-arms. Their commander, a bastard archer from White Harbor by the name of Simon Snow, yanked back his bowstring and let the steel-tipped projectile fly - not knowing that it would punch through the leathers of a Second Son lieutenant almost running a lance into Wun Wun. Hearing the great dragon roaring in, he barked the order "Scatter!" while nocking another arrow and firing.

Daenerys spotted the target apart of the great clashing masses of friend and foe. Men already breaking.  _"Dracarys!"_  A split second passed before Drogon's maw ignited, a torrent of Dragonfire lancing down to envelop Simon Snow and over half of his command into ash. Wingbeats sending a dozen others sprawling into the trodden ground as the black dragon gained altitude. Some sent arrows at the beast, but the few that hit bounced off his scales.

Axe crushing through both artery and windpipe, splattering blood over the ginger beard, Tormund kicked the lifeless husk of a former slave soldier back into the next one. "Go for their throats!" he bellowed, leaping over the corpse to engage the one in the rear… ignoring the spearpoint grazing his side. "Fuck you, cunt motherfuckers!"

 _"Arlī mēre qogron!"_  Grey Worm marshaled his forces in the initial assault. Ordering them back which the unflappable elite spearmen did.  _"Rudhy egrio!"_  Spears bristled outward, stabbing through the thin or nonexistent armor. While the ground was carpeted with the black leathered Unsullied dead, the berserker charge of the First Men began to peter out into the confused, bloody melee. Bristling spears of the phalanx locking with the pikes of the Winterfell - formally Bolton - men, Free Folk and men at arms continuing to try and hack their way through one line at a time.

Bashing his fist against an Unsullied's chest, feeling bones crack as the eunuch collapsed. Ears picking up nonsensical but authoritative words coming from a specific figure, Tormund leaped at the man in charge. Anyone barking orders had to be important.

Hearing the piercing battlecry, Grey Worm managed to spot the charging wildling - red-bearded face looking like a fire demon from the sermons of the Red Priests - just quick enough to stab forward with his spear. But Tormund was quicker, ducking out of the way and grabbing the shaft, yanking forward and pulling Grey Worm out of the formation. Unable to wrench the spear away from his enemy, he drew his knife in his left hand and swung downward with his ax. Blocked by the shield, Grey Worm drawing the spear back and leaping into the furious duel.

Fist crashing against his back, Jon cried in pain as he spun Longclaw, stabbing back and impaling the sellsword through the stomach. Only minutes into the battle he was already bathed in blood - some his, most not. A pair of Dothraki charged at him, only for Devan and Lord Cassel to engage on horseback. Brawlers no match for the trained swordsmen.

Drawing the Valyrian blade out of the dead Second Son, he jerked his hand to quickly clash against an Unsullied. Spearpoint thrust directly at him. Almost skewering him through if not for deflecting the steel point with Longclaw, blade twirling to slice the spear in half. Jon slashed across the former slave soldier's chest with a snarl, Unsullied staggering… but keeping his feet and charging.

 _Fuck!_  Shield smashing against his boiled leather cuirass, Jon was pushed back half a dozen paces before he dug his feet into the ground. Bashing the wolf's head pommel on the Unsullied's helmet. The eunuch slave soldier was tough, but not that tough. Disoriented enough for Jon to bellow a war cry and swing Longclaw, beheading him. There was no time for the Lord of Winterfell to even catch his breath before disemboweling a dismounted Dothraki screamer, guts spilling on the dead grass.

Another wave of heat slammed into his body, blood and sweat close to boiling when the Dragon Queen roared above. Flames blanketing the hills to their west. Hemming us in. Taking note of the carnage all around, the only way to win would be to knock the dragon out of the sky and hack their way through the foreign hordes. Not bothered by the heat - rather reveling in it, the fire driving him to a new sense of ferocity that only ice had before - Jon raised his sword and lunged towards a cluster of spearmen.

Not one hour into the clash and already the blood ran like a rain-swollen river over the cold, dead stretch of the Crownlands. Piles of corpses, broken, burnt, and hacked apart littered the ground. Lines of Dothraki screamers jumped off their horses at clumps of men-at-arms in a frenzy of bloodlust, others clashing with the stalled heavy cavalry charge or engaging in a long-range duel with Karsi's wildling bowmen.

However, even their vaunted courage and disregard for their own lives were broken in the face of the massive Wun Wun. The giant's large hands ripping bloodriders in half and crushing Unsullied underfoot. Only beaten by the Wrath of the North in morale-boosting for the northern army, an attempt to shatter the attackers by the Dragon Queen was beaten back as Wun Wun tossed a still kicking horse at the mighty dragon. Not enough to hurt but enough to break Drogon off. A cheer rose from the Northmen, Free Folk, and Rivermen as they threw themselves again at the Unsullied and Dothraki. Knowing their only salvation was in advance.

This was understood by Daario Naharis. Commanding the far left of the Targaryen line, his Second Sons had been raining arrows into the warriors of House Umber and House Cerwyn for minutes, trying to soften up the tough Northerners. Out of options and in need of a breakthrough, he spun his arakh and led a furious charge. Sellswords whooping as they rode.

"Stay firm, you cunts!" Smalljon snarled. Boring in on the man just to the right of the standard-bearer, he darted forth and aimed the slice of his greatsword for the horse's legs. Daario tumbled to the ground as his horse let out an agonizing screech, scrambling to his feet just as the Northern Lord hacked at him. Power and strength clashing against agility and speed.

Drawing Longclaw out of the stomach of a limp Unsullied, Jon managed to find the Blackfish in the middle of the chaos. He was covered in soot, the ash of dozens of his comrades. "Dragon Queen immolated our center," he coughed. "Took all of our reserves to patch up, and still the horse savages got a hundred men into our rear! Find that shit Baelish got us and take it out!"

In the fog of battle, Jon had forgotten. "Where are the crews?!"

"Fucking dead for all I know!" Another roar as Drogon made another pass, dozens of men caught out in the open going up in smoke.

Looking out, Jon found one of the wagon tenders. Wheels knocked off and the bed leaning on its front axle. Dothraki bloodriders screamed through the area, slaughtering any Northman they could find. "Fucking hells, WITH ME!" Blood splattering off Longclaw as he spun it into position, Jon booked it for the scorpion. Rivermen forming a wedge to protect their commander.

"Why…" Tormund slammed his ax into Grey Worm's shield. "Won't you…" The Unsullied pushed back, swiping with his spear which Tormund leapt over. "Fucking!" He charged, bashing against the shield. "Die!"

Muscles straining - helmet knocked off what had to have been hours before - Grey Worm narrowed his eyes and surged forward. A hidden reserve of strength knocking back the burly wildling. Raising his spear to skewer him through the middle when a trio of stampeding horses separated them. Forcing them apart in the slaughterhouse. Sensing this, knowing the ultimate plan, the commander of the Unsullied whistled.  _"Hakogon arlī!"_  The order carried down the line.  _"Hakogon arlī se gūrogon qogror!"_  Slowly but surely, the Unsullied - joined by enough of the Dothraki still on horseback, began pulling back to regroup.

All his guards had left him, shearing off to engage the Dothraki - leaving Jon a straight shot to the scorpion… which he took. Keeping low and trying not to be noticed.

_"Andal!"_

Apparently not well enough. Dismounted, towering at least a foot higher than Jon, a bloodrider was coming right for him. Long braid almost brushing the backs of his knees, the curved blade in his meaty fist looking like a child's toy. Jon was struck with a sudden sense of deja vu to fighting the Thenn Magnar at Castle Black… only the bloodrider was even larger. Snarling, he raised the arakh and swiped at Jon.

Only just ducking, Jon slashed at the Dothraki. Rocking back and swinging his arms to redouble the attack, aggressive charge gouging a shallow cut on the broad chest and putting his foe off balance. The bloodrider sneered, flushing an enraged red at the small Westerosi not dying from the first few strikes. Arakh back in the fight, the wound slowed him down little as it furiously clashed with Longclaw.

The burly Dothraki was far more agile than his size made him seem. Meeting Jon's every attack, forcing the White Wolf on his heels with his strikes. A strong slash nearly knocked Longclaw out of Jon's hands, hilt twisting around to slam into Jon's shoulder. He cried out in pain but sprang back, feet firm on the ground.

Before he could counterattack, the bloodrider charged into him. Getting inside his swing radius and using his bulk to knock Jon onto his back. Jon landed with a grunt of pain, eyes finding the Dothraki bruiser leering. Readying a death blow when an arrow punched into his shoulder. It didn't slow him down but proved enough of a distraction for Jon to spring nimbly to his feet and slash from the left. Valyrian steel cutting through flesh to cleave the massive bloodrider in two… but not before he had claimed a victim. "Karsi!" Jon knelt, pulling the Free Folk chieftain in his arms. "You'll be fine."

Karsi smiled as the life drained from her. "Get to it, King Crow. Before we all die..." She went limp in his arms

Jon needed no prodding. Remembering just how Littlefinger's men operated the machine, he bounded onto the wagon and brought it around, muscles straining to cock it. "Devan! Get the over here!"

Covered in blood, the squire raced over. "It's not mine… at least most of it isn't," he explained.

"Can you walk without dying?"

"Yeah…"

"Then get your ass on this wagon and load the bolt!"

The fire raced through Daenerys' veins. " _Let's go, my child. Ilagon!"_   He beat his wings and dove. Rocketing towards the enemy.

"Load!" Bolt securely in place, Jon swiveled it towards the coming dragon. The sun was high in the sky but the black beast was just below it. Eminently visible against the blue of the cloudless sky. "Come on, come on, monster."

 _"Dracarys!"_  Drogon's mouth opened wide.

It sobered Jon. Shifting ever so slightly, he released the trigger mechanism. Bolt racing rapidly towards the dragon, serrated steel tip punching through the scales of Drogon's shoulder, cutting through his flesh, and shooting through the exit wound. A through and through, but one that knocked Drogon off course with a loud shriek. Forcing a frantic series of wingbeats to stay upright.

"You got him, my Lord!" Devan cheered.

Jon didn't rest on his laurels. "Reload!"

And he heard it. A roar of hooves from the north. Narrowed eyes suddenly widening as he spotted thousands of fresh Dothraki screamers charging across the plains. Thundering south to complete a classic envelopment - one that would annihilate his army. Seven hells. The battle was over. All their sacrifice, all the blood spilled to near triumph over a numerically superior enemy yet again ending for naught. He would have cried had he been less wary.

"Run!"

Devan's scream grabbing his attention, the ear-splitting roar of the black dragon as it slammed onto the ground just before him would have only a split second later. Amber eyes blazing with anger and hatred - one he knew the beast's rider shared. Jaw opening as sparks sizzled within, Jon reacted and dove. Just barely escaping the blast radius before the scorpion was immolated in searing Dragonfire. Daenerys' smirk was wide in triumph as she ordered Drogon into the air. Ready to finish off the enemy army once and for all.

Coughing, hacking up whatever last meal was in his stomach, Jon found a shadow draped over him. "Get up, King Crow." Tormund bruised and battered but still intact. "Looks like we're fucked."

"Aye. Jon saw several of his subordinates crowding around him, all dismounted. "Any other scorpions?"

Cassel shook his head. "One broke down about a mile back. The other was incinerated with the archers. Perhaps Wun Wun…"

Shaking his head, Jon sighed. Running a hand through his filthy, blood matted hair. "Sound the surrender."

Edmure Tully's jaws dropped. "We've got them on the run…"

Jon grabbed him by the collar and forced him to look at the northern horde. "Look at it! We're exhausted and bloodied, and those are fresh troops with a fucking dragon. The scorpions are gone! It's either death or surrender and I won't be Mern fucking Gardener! Do you understand?!" There were no further naysayers. "Sound the surrender!"

Daenerys could have hugged Grey Worm for his ingenuity. The main assault force pulled back, ragged but in decent enough order, the much smaller Northern force was caught between both blocs of her army and the roaring flames to the west. It exposed the enemy and feeling the pain of Drogon's wound the Mother of Dragons hungered for vengeance. She angled Drogon in a shallow dive. _"Drac…"_

A sight stopped her mid-word. The enemy were tossing down their weapons - swords and spears sunk into the earth as they waved frantically. Many strips of white cloth appearing out of nowhere to flutter in the gentle breeze. Surrendering, they were surrendering.

 _They are your enemies!_  One voice snarled within her, roaring like a caged beast.  _Set an example, burn them all!_  It would be easy, and there would be no threat from these men if she did. Much of Westeros would probably bend the knee after…

She shook her head. Daenerys had no qualms about burning her enemies, not after the Harpy Rebellion, but not innocents. Not men who willfully surrendered. "Drogon, bank." The dragon roared at her command.

Shouts and frenzied movements all around Jon, he heard the entire Northern army breathe a sigh of relief as the Dragon Queen and her massive beast sharply turned away. Soaring off towards the hills to the east. Already, weary sellswords and Unsullied approached their lines, spears, and swords at the ready in case of a trap. "Keep calm men," Jon said, voice steady if resigned. "It's over."

"I would have been honored to die by your side, King Crow," Tormund breathed, clutching a cut on his arm. Superficial, but by the way he grimaced it still hurt like a bitch.

Jon shook his head. "There's no honor in death. At least now we live to fight another day." Watching as a bearded sellsword approached him, confident swagger and sneering arrogance on display as he yanked Longclaw from the ground as a spoil of war, Jon realized that for the first time since Ygritte and her band captured him that he tasted defeat.

Dragon roaring in the distance as it landed atop the tallest hill, he hoped that the Mother of Dragons would be as forgiving - or gullible - as Mance Rayder was. The stench of burnt flesh that lingered on the battlefield made obvious the consequence of false hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Well, there you have it, Daenerys was always supposed to attack Jon. As you can probably guess, this is going to change the dynamic a bit. More than a bit actually... well you'll see. I don't wanna give anything away. Though I'm sure it's pretty clear, Jon and Dany aren't going to exactly be huge fans of each other. They just saw each other for the first time so, you've got that. But we did say that it was eventual romance.
> 
> Longclaw: The battle was loosely based of the Battle of Sadowa, but with plenty of adapted content as well. Jon is much smarter than Jaime or Randyll Tarly, and has a better read on Dany than any other. Thus, he managed to protect the majority of his men from being burned alive.
> 
> Anyone familiar with my work knows of "Longclaw's Rule of Happy Endings." And my co-writer absolutely agrees with me. So, I think y'all will trust us to make sure things go well as we jump right into this unique take on Jonerys.
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.
> 
> Edit: ummmm... I get this was not gonna be popular as a plot point, but come on. It's war. Dany was in her right to attack Jon's men and Jon was in his rights to counterattack. This is not the same as the Mad King burning Rickard and Brandon Stark. The Northerners were a legitimate military target that was at war with both Cersei and Daenerys. Dany is not a monster and Jon is not a wimp for surrendering. She accepted the surrender and did not kill anyone after she had won. That's... pretty much how war works.
> 
> My co-author and I are going for something very unique here. It will work and it will be epic. IF we didn't think it would work, we wouldn't have written the story. Be patient and trust us. I think we've earned it.
> 
> And fyi, Jon and Ygritte and Jon and Tormund were enemies that basically killed each other's friends and allies until at least season 6 (in Tormund's case). Enemies can bridge the gap, please stop saying "Jonerys is dead." It's really one-dimensional.


	20. Bend the Knee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hello everyone. Happy Thanksgiving to our American readers!
> 
> Well... last chapter had a huge reception for our story. Lots of good comments but also a lot of worried comments, critical comments, and outright trolls - some things were said and while I regret some of my conduct there, if you read some of the trolling comments most could be excused for responding with some irritation. The trolls won't get any attention from us anymore. However, for the respectful comments that were worried about the last chapter, let me explain a bit.
> 
> It was always intended for Jon and Dany to have an enemies to lovers tagline. We made both a bit darker than in canon, but neither are intended to be complete saints or psychopathic monsters. They are the protagonists in this story, but it doesn't mean they have to be saints. We're going for somewhere in the middle in action but still being heroes.
> 
> I get that a believable romance is gonna be tough between our two heroes right now. However, we didn't decide to write this story just for complete fluff. We love the challenge and we plan to make it believable. We both appreciate everyone who commented respectfully and hope we can count on all y'all to stick around while we continue :)
> 
> BRuh4: Hey, y'all... so last chapter sort of started a fire of sorts. We don't really wanna comment too much more on it, but it's worth mentioning. We engaged with some readers in the comments a lot, and it got pretty nasty. That shouldn't have happened. But here's what it all boils down to. There's a difference between you being angry about something that happened and shitting on it. And having legitimate concerns and criticism, noting those in your review. A lot of times I feel like y'all see something that happens, and immediately you think "Jon wouldn't do that" or "Dany would never think that". To that I say, think about Jon and Dany as we've presented them. Not like you imagine them in your brain or through your eyes. Because those are the versions being given to you in this story. Not picture-perfect princess or the incorruptible king, those people aren't here.
> 
> Furthermore and lastly, if you really felt spurned by chapter 19, and you really don't think we can pull this off. Fine, please don't continue to read and fill our comments with your dissatisfaction. Just because it's never happened before doesn't it won't ever happen. We're not assholes, and we were a bit out of line a few times. But imagine being excited to share something for five months, only for the people you desired to show it to shit on it. Geez.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

All the men from the losing side were forcefully jostled until they gathered before the hill. The Dragon Queen still sat atop it, gazing down upon the droves of surrendered men. Jon looked up at her and scowled, he knew this wasn't good. A few moments later, her dragon reared up and screeched, trembling the ground and rattling bones. Many of Jon's cohorts fell to the ground in fear, but he stood tall.

He was a direwolf of House Stark. He cowered for no one.

The Targaryen soldiers were tense - apart from the Dothraki and sellswords looting the corpses of the dead - weapons at the ready. Staring at the captured Westerosi as if an exotic troop of mummers, which Jon felt his men would look at these foreigners if the shoe was on the other foot. "It was nice knowing ya," he heard Smalljon whisper next to him.

"They won't kill us," Jon replied, all but certain.

Eying the various soldiers of the Dragon Queen's army, he grimaced. "The cockless freaks, probably not, but those horse savages and sellswords? They'll rob us and then rape our corpses."

Jon shook his head. "They follow her." His eyes landed on the Dragon Queen. "All depends on her." He hoped she wasn't like her father, though that might have been a false hope.

Murmurs of fear and wonder rippled through the prisoners as Daenerys Targaryen descended from the back of the dragon, and walked to the edge of the hill. Able to get a fully better look upon her, he noticed that she truly was as beautiful as he had heard, if not more so. Flowing silver hair, lithe figure underneath her battledress, purple eyes still piercingly breathtaking from the great distance. Visenya Targaryen reborn. Though her countenance wasn't full of admiration, just a heavy fierce gaze burning down at him.

So… just like Visenya Targaryen.

Surrounding her were the advisors she brought with the army. Grey Worm, Tyrion, and her bloodriders. One of them was missing.  _"Where is Korro?"_  she asked in their tongue. To the prisoners, it only made her seem more foreign.

Rokharro shrugged.  _"Went through the breach. Didn't come out."_

Nodding, Daenerys turned to Tyrion, who stood next to her. "A large haul of prisoners," she whispered, eyeing Wun Wun. "So giants are real, I doubted I would see that." Pockmarked with arrows and broken off spearpoints, but still standing like a colossus among the other prisoners. Half the Dothraki archers aimed their bows at him. "What would I do with them?"

"You could take them to Dragonstone, but that would be dangerous and eat up supplies. There are still two enemy armies to defeat, and we lost many men today." She gritted her teeth. The Wrath of the North had very nearly annihilated much of her army with his aggressive counterattack. "I say let them go."

"So they can fight me again?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Northerners obey their oaths, and the death of the Boltons only shows the consequences of breaking them. You defeated them, so mercy on your part would behold them to you. Let them bend the knee and keep some of their lords as hostage - they'll keep themselves out of the fight."

Her advisor spoke sense, a first of actually decent advice since they landed in Westeros. She didn't wish to be known as the Queen of the Ashes. Clearing her throat, she looked at all the men. "I know what you have heard," she called out to them in a loud tone. "What songs your leaders have sung about me. Stannis Baratheon… I've no doubt he spouted on long about how I've come to burn your homes and rape your lands with my foreign army. But I'm just here to retake what is mine. Cersei Lannister, Stannis Baratheon, they are who stand in my way. This battle is over, you've lost. I am not my father, and will not repeat his unjust crimes against any of my subjects. Join me in ending the tyrannical rule of men who would have killed you outright." She cleared her throat. "Bend the knee. Or refuse… and die."

A few dropped to their knees then, instantly. Jon didn't blame them. The rest knelt after the black dragon bellowed at them again. Well, except for Jon, Devan, Wun Wun, the Blackfish, Edmure, Tormund, and Smalljon, they all stood straight.

The next moment, Tyrion Lannister walked up to stand next to Daenerys. Squinting, clearly, he was noticing someone among the crowd.

He half-laughed, "Jon Snow? That's Jon Snow."

Daenerys frowned, turning the Lannister, "What? He wasn't supposed to be here." They'd come with the intention of eliminating a section of Stannis' forces. They thought it was mostly Riverlanders, only when the fighting began did they realize there were Northern forces here. Dany had been assured that Jon Stark was with his King, Stannis Baratheon.

"Well, I see him right there," Tyrion replied, his voice sounded like he wasn't sure himself. Jon didn't show any reaction as two Dothraki came over to bring him closer. They pulled him out in front of the crowd. Being closer, Tyrion confirmed his suspicion, "He's a bit older. But for sure, that's him."

"He was most definitely here," said a rather arrogant voice. The bearded sellsword, whom Jon had heard called 'Daario' walked up to just beneath the Dragon Queen and bowed. "My Queen." From his belt he unsheathed Longclaw. Jon fought his blood boiling as Daario Naharis presented the Valyrian Steel blade to Daenerys. "I present to you the Valyrian Steel sword of the Wrath of the North as a token of your victory this day." It rankled Jon to no end to see the blade that had seen him through years of struggle and war, but he hung his head - nothing to be done.

Daenerys cocked her head to the side, staring at him as she leaned down and took the blade from Daario. It felt… strange in her hand. Light and easy to wield, but as if not supposed to be hers. "This is a beautiful blade, Jon Snow. I shall see that it is returned to you when you bend the knee to your rightful Queen." She sheathed it, waiting for his answer.

Glowering, Jon wrestled himself free of the Dothraki and said, "Stark. My name is Stark." The Bloodriders would've hacked him down if Dany hadn't stopped them by holding up her hand. Moments later, she descended the hill to get closer, Tyrion and Daario followed. The Dothraki took hold of him again seconds later.

Bloodriders, Daario, and the stone-faced Unsullied commander who couldn't seem to keep a death glare off Tormund - not that the Wildling didn't reciprocate - forming a protective cordon around her, Dany got up close to the Stark, looking him up and down. "So, this is the man I've heard so much about. Bringing the wildings and giants south of the Wall. Killing the Boltons and Freys, defeating Jaime Lannister and his army… I thought you'd be taller."

Jon smirked, "If I'm honest, I didn't know what to expect out of you. I'd heard so many different things."

"And what do you think?"

"You are exactly what they said you were." Underneath, of course, he couldn't see. But the visage of the woman before him seemed to be the vicious conquerer he'd heard so much about.

"A shame," Daenerys sighed, clasping her hands. "I would've truly liked your assistance on how to best dispatch Stannis." She turned to Drogon, who began stomping down the hill.

Tyrion made his voice known, "Your Grace, Jon Snow would make an excellent prisoner."

Hating how he would have to swallow his pride, Jon thought of his men. Thought of Sansa, of Arya and Rickon. Knowing he would burn in all Seven Hells if he let his own arrogance get Winterfell razed to the ground by a dragon. "If I allow myself to be your prisoner," he spoke to Daenerys. "Will you spare my men?"

The Dragon Queen regarded him anew. "You care about your men. I respect that." Jon Snow and she had much in common - yet fate brought them together as enemies. "If they bend the knee." She watched him hang his head, but nod. "You'll need to bend the knee as well."

"Not gonna happen." No hesitation.

Tyrion saw his Queen's eyes narrow dangerously. "Don't act rashly, your Grace. Perhaps we can get something out of him, given how much he knows about Stannis."

Jon spat onto the ground, "I won't tell you a fucking thing."

Daario got up close, "I'll make sure someone takes good care of your sword, bastard."

In response, Jon head-butted Daario as hard as he could, forcing the sellsword to collapse. Causing a scuffle between Jon and the Bloodriders, who began punching him in the face and gut. Once Daario got to his feet again, blood dripping over his nose, he gave Jon a kick. Wun Wun snarled, prompting Drogon to roar as well.

 _"Enough!"_  Daenerys shouted in Dothraki, her people stopped immediately.  _"Pick him up."_  The Dothraki did as they were told, bringing the beaten and bruised Stark to his feet. "It seems you do not understand the situation you are in. You've lost. You are in no position to make demands." Her tone was a fit of restrained anger, but almost… scolding.

"My Queen, I highly advise keeping Jon Snow alive," Tyrion repeated himself. "The North would be more inclined to behave for the duration of the war if we keep their Warden as a hostage." It was clear he didn't wish to see Jon die, but it actually thinking him a valuable prisoner or from more personal reasons - they had a decent liking to each other during their travels to the wall so long ago. "Show these men that you are not your father, spare Jon Snow."

"Stark," Jon said, gritting his teeth, still trying to break free.

Daario laughed. "Legitimized by the Stag Usurper, no doubt. He has no authority."

Keeping her eyes on Jon, Daenerys said, "And what use would he serve after I take back the Iron Throne? Do you really expect this man to ever bend the knee?"

"You shouldn't," Jon laughed a bit, his chest aching from where the sellsword kicked it. "Because I won't."

"Will you please shut up?" Tyrion told Jon. "I'm trying to save your life."

Jon allowed himself a genuine smile. "Dwarves and bastards, right?" A tiny bit of camaraderie with Tyrion, both starting at the same level more or less. Both making something of themselves, only choosing different sides. "You have your code, and I have mine. I swore my allegiance to Stannis Baratheon just as my father did, and fuck anyone who would ask me to break my oath." He narrowed his eyes at Daenerys.

"Seems to me he cares little for his own life," Daario scoffed, pinching his somewhat now cock-eyed nose. "Burn him and be done with it, his death will be a heavy blow to Stannis." Jon decided if he ever escaped, he would kill this man first. The arrogance enraged him.

"If you kill him now the North will never come to heel," Tyrion pointed out. "Targaryens have burned enough Starks."

"But that's all you do, all you ever will, burn.  _Dragons don't plant trees._  Isn't that the saying?" Jon said, he watched the surprise wash over the Queen. "It was me that shot that bolt at your dragon." He smirked darkly as her violet eyes widened ever so slightly. Something in him made him shift course and only wound the dragon - be it instinct, nerves, or his dreams - only now he regretted it. Seeing the Dragon Queen before him, the woman that murdered many of his men and nonchalantly discussed his servitude… the rage threatened to overcome him. "I missed but I wish I hadn't, maybe some of my men would still be alive."

Drogon neared then, looming over them. So close Daenerys reached out to stroke his jaw. Jon's eyes stuck to the dragon, the hot breath fluttering in his face. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he'd see a dragon. He just wished it was under better circumstances.

"Are you scared, Jon Snow?" Daenerys asked, her voice low.

A mere snort. "What's there to be scared of? It's just a fire-breathing dragon." The truth was it terrified him, not that he'd let her know it. "If you're gonna use him on me hurry up and fucking do it, I ain't got all day," Jon said, scowling.

Flashing a smile, her indigo eyes twinkling with a dangerous amusement, Daenerys leaned closer to the dragon. "Drogon," she whispered like a mother to her child. " _Urnēptre nyke skoros ao pendagon hen bisa vala?"_

Growling loud enough to nearly render some temporarily deaf, Drogon's neck surged forward. Jaw right in Jon's face. Maw opening to screech at the bound northerner. Spittle shooting out, air superheated around him. Bracing his feet, gritting his teeth, Jon willed himself to stand his ground. Not conceding an inch to this - rather effective - intimidation tactic...

Only suddenly, the roar ceased. Eyes opening, Jon found the dragon merely staring at him. Amber eyes filled with mere curiosity. Something was different about this man. Yes, he had fired, but the dragon could sense his feelings, his emotions. Pick up that no, he didn't truly want him to die - that Jon Stark had consciously shifted his aim. For what reason Drogon did not know, but knew that this man was not to be harmed. Drogon sniffed him once, leaned forward to nudge Jon in the chest, then sniffed again. Letting out a grunt - as much as a massive dragon could grunt - Drogon turned and ambled several wingstrides away. Bored.

Jon thanked the Gods he hadn't pissed himself but was mollified rather well by the look of dumbfounded surprise on the Dragon Queen's face.

 _How… why did Drogon do that?_  Her mercurial, easily angered son would have likely toyed with Jon. Made him piss himself from the foul mood Drogon was in, but the Warden of the North actually calmed Drogon down.  _A white wolf, alone and wounded in the snow,_  the images flooded her mind again. There was more to this man than met the eye, not just because of her dreams.

"If you're waiting for me to shake in my boots, you're gonna keep waiting, because it won't happen. Be your father and burn me, or don't be your father and let me live. At this point… I really don't care."

A bit affronted, but the surprise morphing into interest. Dany replied, "You are some man, Jon Snow."

"Stark."

"Yes, Stark, what have you," Dany sighed, waving her hand in the air. Then she said, simply, "Bind him, he's coming with us."

There was disagreement from Daario by the way his jaw dropped. "But your Grace…"

"Enough, Captain Naharis. He's now my hostage. Anyone who so much as touches him against my orders will be killed." Chastised, the sellsword quieted down. From the look on his face, Grey Worm also disagreed but chose not to antagonize his Queen by speaking up.

By the noise Jon made it sounded like he'd rather be burned as the Dothraki drug him off to the side. "You made the right decision," Tyrion said, still next to Daenerys. "Your Grace."

"You better hope so." Her eyes narrowed. "Remember the promise I gave Varys." Tyrion gulped, remembering it all too well.

"What about these?" Daario said, pointing his blade at the others still standing. The Blackfish, Edmure, Devan, Smalljon, and Tormund still stood high.

The White Wolf rolled his eyes. "Devan, kneel!" The squire trembled but obeyed his Lord's orders. Jon was relieved - Davos didn't deserve to lose another son. "Smalljon?"

Narrowing his eyes at his liege lord, the Lord of Last Hearth sighed and fell to his knee. Little Ned didn't deserve to be saddled with running the keep at his young age.

With a mere look, Wun Wun smacked his fist against his chest - a sign of defiance. "Stark," he grunted, but bent the knee. Daenerys allowed it, pride in herself surging within her chest. A mighty giant bending for her… if anything was a more apt symbolism of her life, she had yet to find it.

"Tormund," Jon called out next to his friend. "Bend your damned knee, don't be a fool."

"You know how I don't like kneeling, King Crow," Tormund huffed.

"Don't die for nothing! Don't throw your life away, live to fight another day."

Tormund hung his head, running his fingers through his hair and beard. When he raised his head, he locked eyes with Jon. He shook his head rapidly, but moments later he dropped to one knee, groaning and cursing up a storm under his breath. Just leaving Edmure and the Blackfish still upright and defiant. Brynden turned to his nephew and said, "Sit the fuck down, boy."

"What? No, I'm with you."

The Blackfish sent his fist into Edmure's cheek, sending him spiraling to the ground. "There, I did it for ya, now stay down."

"Ah… Lord Tully," Daenerys said. "You won't be bending the knee?"

"Not to you, not ever," the Blackfish scowled. "Your father burned my niece's intended alive, and one mad Targaryen monarch was enough for me. No, I intend on dying with my dignity intact."

"So be it," Dany shrugged slightly as the Dothraki stomped over to drag Brynden away from the others, leaving him out all by himself off to the side. "Brynden of House Tully. For the crime of treason against the Realm, I, Daenerys Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die."

"Brynden, what are you doing?" Jon raised his voice. "Don't be a fucking idiot, save yourself."

For once, the Blackfish coughed up a smile. "You were the best of us, Stark. It was my pleasure fighting by your side," the smile never wavered, Brynden Tully, looking like a new man. "Fight like hell and see if you can make something out of all this shit. Someone has to, I always figured it'd be you." Then he turned back to Edmure, "And you, stay alive, if you can. Someone has to carry the goddamn name."

Daenerys waited until he was finished. The Blackfish stared at her with his stern expression, then up at Drogon, who rose over him. Long before the fire lanced out from the dragon's mouth, Brynden the Blackfish started to yell as loud as he could, making sure all heard his voice.

But it was the Dragon Queen's that Drogon heard. "Dracarys." With that, Brynden was reduced to mere ash, gone in less than a second.

Sick to his stomach, eyes closed to see a man he respected greatly be burned alive - one whom he had fought and bled on the battlefield with - he turned away. Opening them to find the

Dragon Queen directly in his sights. A person he had never thought he could hate more than all the others who had wronged his family, but the current moment proved him wrong.

And from the look she shot him, Daenerys Targaryen seemed to feel indifferent about it. Not enjoyment, nor pain, but just like it was something that needed to be done.

In a way, that was worse than hate.

* * *

"Open the bloody gate!"

Four horsemen galloped through the gateway of Maidenpool at high speeds, only to skid to a halt. The leader leapt off his mount just as Lord William Mooton scrambled down the steps of his keep. "What in Seven Hells is the meaning of this?" he demanded, the folds of fat jostling under his loose doublet. Clearly a Lord who preferred the softer aspects of castle life, given he wasn't in the field with his men or his Tully Liege.

Howland didn't have time to deal with some pompous, soft highborn. "Howland Reed of Greywater Watch! I need a raven!"

"A northern swamp Lord?" At least Lord Mooton kept up to date on his knowledge. "Unless that Northern bastard comes here…"

The Lord of Maidenpool was cut off by Howland grabbing him by the lapel of his doublet, slamming him against the stone of the castle's walls. Guards began to level their spears only for the three Crannogmen's swords to emerge from their scabbards, leveled at the Rivermen to protect their lord. "Listen here you fat pig," Howland seethed. "The Dragon Queen just set upon the Northern Army… my men… with a Dothraki horde and her dragon!"

"You're…" Lord Mooton wheezed… "Crushing my windpipe…"

"Either I'll get a raven right now or I fucking kill you and get your heir to give it to me!" Grey eyes narrowed dangerously, the small, unassuming Crannogmen turning into the roaring lion-lizard on his sigil. "Or perhaps I should let the other two dragons I didn't see burn you alive!" William Mooton's eyes widened in pure fear. The stories of Aegon's Conquest were quite personal to the Mootons of Maidenpool, given they had been the first targeted by Aegon the Conqueror. "Now where are the ravens?"

A fleshy hand pointed towards a tall tower in the northeastern corner… overlooking the mouth of the Trident. Releasing him, Howland was already bounding to the tower's staircase by the time Lord William collapsed to the ground, sputtering and coughing.

* * *

"It's been so long."

"I'd like to say home hasn't changed," Sansa said, sighing a bit. "But it has. At least for me, it'll never be the same."

Arya hadn't yet been entirely apprised of all that happened to Sansa over the years. She'd heard whispers, of course, but no one had specifically told her what had happened. "Why not?" she asked her sister.

Eyes narrowing - not necessarily at her sister - the elder Stark fought the memories that threatened to bubble up. "You don't know everything, Arya."

"Why don't you tell me?" Arya replied genuinely.

Sansa's eyes fluttered shut. "It's too hard."

"Too hard?"

"You just don't understand."

Silent for a moment, Arya gently leaned over to place a hand on Sansa's shoulder. Silently comforting her in a way she never really had before. "If you're ready to talk, I'll be here. I've had a hard time too, so perhaps we can share." A soft sigh followed, Sansa smiling softly at her.

A knock at the door silenced the talk between the sisters, a servant girl floated through the doorway once allowed entry. She carried a raven scroll between her fingers. Sansa looked at her and sighed, "Who's it from?"

"Howland Reed, by the sigil," the handmaiden replied.

"Reed? Why would he be sending a raven to us?" Arya frowned. "Not Jon?"

The older sister looked at her sibling, ideas bouncing around in her head. Realization coming across her brain, she grabbed the parchment and unfurled it as quick as she could. Eyes fluttering down the inked lines, the words looked to be scratched across in a hurry.

Arya sat forward, worried, "What's it say?" When Sansa didn't reply, just letting the paper fall from her hand to the floor; Arya snatched it up to read it for herself.

Sansa brought her hand up to her mouth, closed her eyes, and just slowly shook her head. No words dared to flow from her mouth.

After reading the contents, Arya nearly ripped the parchment to shreds. "Can't be."

"It is," Sansa nodded. "Howland wouldn't lie."

"He can't have been beaten," Arya shook her head.

"He was." She balled her hands into fists… "Damn you, Jon… you promised…" Tears pricked her lids. "You fucking promised." Sansa began to sob softly, imagining her brother's body a charred husk in some field in the Crownlands.

"He hasn't died, just captured. We'll get him back… I'll do something."

"What will you do?" Sansa snapped, pushing her tears back. "We don't know what's happened. He could be dead."

"Don't talk like that!" Arya frowned. "He's not."

"Daenerys Targaryen attacked him, likely with dragons. Do really think she left anyone standing?"

Arya opened her mouth to retort, but then shut it just as fast. "I'll kill her."

"You won't. You can't," Sansa argued.

"Someone has to do something!"

"We have to go home, Arya. We have no other choice. All of our men were with Jon, we can't fight her. Stannis has rode off to Highgarden. He can't help us."

"We're on our own then, fine. I like it better that way," Arya huffed, crossing her arms.

"We have to be smart. You running off to chase Daenerys Targaryen isn't smart. We need you… I need you."

"Sansa-"

"We must go home, Arya," Sansa insisted. "There is no other option. We'll be safe there."

"For how long? How long until Daenerys Targaryen flies in with her dragons? We'll be slaughtered."

"I don't know, I wish I did."

"We can't just leave him out there," Arya said, not backing down.

Sansa pursed her lips, "If Jon made it through the battle. She'll likely have taken him prisoner. I imagine he'll be taken back to Dragonstone. Once he's there I suspect we'll get a raven, Daenerys will want us to swear fealty."

"What happens after that?"

"We can begin negotiations to get Jon back."

* * *

"A raven has come from Ser Barristan, your Grace." Daenerys looked up from the map. "Lady Olenna has reached Highgarden and they are preparing to march once the Dornish arrive. Their Lords are waiting in Sunspear for Lady Ellaria."

She nodded. "Good. Our forces will wait in Duskendale until the remainder of the Dothraki make port in Dragonstone." Their casualties were far too high to continue an assault, the Wrath of the North inflicting double the dead and wounded that they did on his men. Ten thousand, and that didn't count on the chaos and gutted units - even though it happened to her, Daenerys was quite impressed. "Once set, we'll sweep over everything in our path."

At that moment, the bloodriders stepped aside as Daario Naharis entered the tent. While most of the army was exhausted from the brutal fighting of the last day, he seemed almost manic. Boredom sated from the bloodlust and grinning like an idiot - Jon Stark's Valyrian steel sword clipped to his belt. "My Queen," Daario bowed, his eyes twinkling with something Tyrion knew quite well.  _If he's any more obvious then he'd be humping her leg._  The blue-black splotch centered on his nose worked to undermine the arrogant expression, however. "Do you mind, Lord Tyrion. I need to confer with her Grace alone."

"There will be no need," Daenerys stated flatly. "I am very busy with matters of pressing importance and I need Lord Tyrion to decipher them. Noticing his put-off expression, grin faltering, Daenerys narrowed her eyes. "Do you have something to tell me, Captain Naharis?"

He cleared his throat, resolving to try again when she was in Dragonstone - stress could as easily kill an amorous mood as fighting caused one, and Daenerys Targaryen was not one to simply overpower. "The enemy column is heading northwest, back to Harrenhal. I've left my best scouts to shadow them and report back if they attempt to betray their agreement and rejoin with the Usurper."

That was good news indeed. "You made sure they kept their food stocks?" While the enemy wagon train was fair game, her first order after letting the Northmen, Free Folk, and Rivermen go was to let them keep their horses, pack oxen, and food. They had surrendered and bent the knee - as her new subjects, letting them starve wasn't an option.

One that Daario strenuously disagreed with. "You should have let my men kill them all. Or at least their lords. Cut off the head of the snake and let the rest rot."

"Killing prisoners violates every convention of war," Tyrion scowled. "Do you want her to lose every Westerosi house? Or just the ones that bested you in battle… or knocked you down while bound and gagged?" The scowl turned into a smirk.

Daario glared at him. "War is war, Imp. You either fight hard or die." Patting the Valyrian steel sword, he smirked. "And I don't intend to die."

"Anything can happen if you're not careful," Daenerys said, in a warning tone. "And I will not let my subjects die. They bent the knee, so let them go home in peace, are we clear?" A tense silence, but the sellsword nodded. "Is our prisoner ready for travel?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Daario answered. "I checked in on him myself."

"Is he… properly secured?" Tyrion asked. "He must not get loose." An image of Jon storming through their camp slashing through hundreds of troops flashed through his mind. The Imp still don't know how he had convinced the queen to spare him… he wasn't about to push his luck.

The sellsword scoffed. "As I said, I checked on him myself."

"You have his sword," Dany pointed out, eyeing the blade.

"Aye," he said, freeing Longclaw from its scabbard. "Valyrian Steel, Your Grace, I know it will serve me well."

"Perhaps not."

Daario blinked. "Your Grace?"

"Perhaps you shouldn't carry such a blade," Daenerys said, tilting her head. "A swordsman as fine as you doesn't need such a weapon to carry out his duties. You already have a blade, do not?"

"But—"

Ironically, his arrogance had only grown since she tossed him out of her bed. "Leave the blade here, you don't deserve it."  _A little humbling would serve him well._  "You didn't win it from him. You took it. A proud blade like that deserves someone who actually earned the right to wield it." Remembering how it felt in her hand, even Daenerys didn't feel right with it.

Silence so thick it could be cut with a knife, eventually, Daario did the smart thing and handed the blade to Daenerys. "My Queen." He bowed graciously, waiting for her nod to turn and leave the tent.

Tyrion kept quiet for as long as he could. "Well… you certainly put him in his place."

"He needed it. Will be a far better follower if he knows I won't let him get away with anything." Dany placed the sword on the table, marveling it. "I can't afford to second guess myself, Tyrion. If I look back, I am lost, but I can't help but think…"

"You did the right thing, your Grace." The more Tyrion thought about it, the more he knew it was the only option. "Stannis would never have kneeled, and he would have done the same to you had he had dragons." A sigh left his lips. "I only wish that it didn't involve such loss of life."

Daenerys ran a hand along the fine, smoky blade. Eyes fogging over in regret. "So do I." She wanted to be the great conqueror, the restorer of House Targaryen, but still… She was Mhysa, the Breaker of Chains. How would Westeros know that if she… "Your father didn't treat prisoners well, did he?"

Scoffing, Tyrion glanced up at her. "Good gods no. Tortured them to no end if they could give him information… and tortured them even if they didn't. You, on the other hand, allowed your Volantian healers to travel with the northerners as far as Harrenhal. A gracious gesture."

"Not enough for them to love me, I'm afraid." The people of the North, the Riverlands, and even the lands north of the Wall were her subjects too, and she would break the wheel for them. "Jon Stark is key to getting through to them."  _He certainly got through to Drogon._  The black dragon seemed to forget he had even been injured, let alone by Jon Stark's hand. "What do you know of him, Tyrion?"

"I spent some time with him, a very long time ago," Tyrion said, stroking his goatee. "But he is a very different man now. Less of a bastard and a whole lot more man, he's a Stark now. That's given him a new lease on life it seems, he's bold."

Hanging her head, had Missandei, Barristan, or Ser Jorah been there they would have noticed the great Mother of Dragons bore a similar expression to that of when Drogon burned the little girl alive. "I wish he had I would have met under different circumstances. Perhaps then we could be allies."

"Perhaps you still can be. Aegon the Conqueror made loyal subjects of those he conquered."

"A dragonrider, a Targaryen, we are gifted with great power but also a great curse. None can see my dragons for how I see them, not even you, my Lord." Daenerys sighed. "Who could love a dragon?"

In the Queen, Tyrion saw both a mighty dragonrider and a kind soul.  _She will never go mad. Ruthless, lonely yes, but never mad._  It was up to him and the others of her circle to keep her grounded, especially since there was no other Targaryen left. "Your people love you," was what he finally said.

Such was true, but not the whole story. "I freed them from chains, but here… I have no love here. I am merely the Mother of Monsters, the Mad King's daughter, someone to be hated. I don't have love here, only fear… and how can I break the wheel using fear alone?"

What could one say to that? "Give it time, your Grace. Aegon eventually found the love of the people in spite of Maidenpool. In spite of the Field of Fire."

 _The Field of Fire…_  A deep, soulful sigh. Without Jorah, without Missandei or Barristan, Tyrion was the only person she felt any kinship with. Any friendship with - the man had endured a quite similar darkness. "All I could see while I flew… while I attacked the Northern Army… I could only think of was all the hardships my House has endured."

"Stannis was but a boy of ten and seven at the time, defending Storm's End against Mace Tyrell. While he was on his brother's small council, I don't think he had any specific role in your family's harm." Gods knew how anti-Targaryen Stannis was now, though.

She hunched over the map table, the weight of the world on her shoulders. Too much for a girl of a mere twenty and two in Tyrion's opinion. "Yunkai was bloodless… Meereen was bloodless. Both ended up bathed in blood because I chose to break the wheel. I don't regret fighting for the freedom of the slaves, Lord Tyrion, but with all the blood that has been spilled already… by me… I can't imagine the ocean of blood that will follow my capture of the Iron Throne."

Tyrion did not know what to say. What could he say?

"Go check on Jon Stark," she finally broke the silence. "Make sure he knows that I won't harm him and that I truly let his men go. I fear that Daario has done the opposite." If Tyrion - or Barristan as well - as the angel perched on her shoulder, Daario was the demon perched on the other side. "He is our hostage but is also the Warden of the North. I want his fealty, Tyrion, and you know him better than anyone else."

He bowed. "At once, your Grace."

* * *

It didn't take him long to find where the Stark was being held. The six Unsullied standing guard by the smallest tent in the camp was a dead-give-away. The smaller man strolled up to the men, "The Queen sent me. Could you give me a minute?" The guards all looked at each other for a few moments before shifting away off to the side.

Tyrion entered to find Jon tied to a lonesome post in the middle of the space. He sat down with his head hung over, fresh bruises coating his face and body. Though he looked up when the dwarf came in. He mustered a smirk, "Come to finish the job?"

"Hardly," Tyrion scoffed. "I couldn't kill you right now even if I wanted to. The Queen sent me to check on you."

Jon chuckled, "Did she now?"

"She did. We heard Daario came in earlier. I thought you might need some cheering up."

The Stark's face darkened,  _"I'm going to kill that man."_

"I believe you." Unable to help the smirk beneath his bushy beard and mustache, Tyrion grabbed a stool resting on the side of the tent and took a seat. "He really is an acquired taste… though for the life of me I don't know anyone that acquired it." His eyebrows perked up, glad to have someone - even a tied up prisoner - he could gossip to.  _I miss Bronn._  Barristan and Varys were always too serious. "There's this old Valyrian sauce made from fermented fish that the Volantines still enjoy. Tastes like rancid vinegar to me… that's Daario Naharis."

"The Queen keeps him around," Jon said, devolving into coughs. Blood splattered from his split lip. "Let him keep my sword… I'll be getting it back, by the way."

Tyrion clicked his tongue. "He was strutting around the camp with that blade… Lord Mormont's, if I recall correctly? Must have trusted you a lot to give it to you." Tired and in pain, Jon nevertheless narrowed his eyes at the Imp. Jeor Mormont a sore spot for him. "Doesn't matter… anyway, the Queen wouldn't let him have the sword."

This legitimately surprised Jon. "Why?"

"Said that he didn't earn the sword, just stole it." Pushing himself off the stool, Tyrion approached Jon. Reasonably certain the Warden of the North wouldn't attack him. "She'll give it back to you if you bend the knee. Hells, I think even a simple oath of fealty would suffice."

"You know I can't."

The Imp scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Why even ask me? You know I won't."

"It's a very reasonable thing to ask," Tyrion said, shaking his head. Then he looked around the dirty tent, "It'd certainly get you out of here and back to your home. That'd be enough for me."

"Not for me," Jon scowled. "I've already sworn myself to Stannis. I'd rather die than betray him."

There was a momentary silence, seconds ticking past almost like hours. "You might get your wish, Jon Stark."

A laugh, followed by a groan of pain. Apparently his bruised ribs hadn't healed from where Daario and the Dothraki had kicked him. "I won't. That I know for sure."

"I wouldn't be so confident if I were you."

Had Jon been unbound, he would have crossed his arms to match the wry grin. Matched with the fresh black eye and split lip, he bore the roguish charm that served Tyrion's old friend Ser Bronn so well. "That's where you're wrong, Imp. See, I may be a northern fool, but I did pick things up along the way. Where I go, the North and the Free Folk follow - Sansa may hold their loyalty in my stead, but if anything happens to me then all bets are off." He coughed again, blood dribbling down his chin. Tyrion took pity and brought a rag to wipe off the red liquid. "Thanks… Your Queen can't ever kill me, lest she wants the First Dornish War to look like a bum fight in a brothel."

"I hardly think Daenerys is scared of some wildlings and a beaten Northern army," Tyrion laughed. "You only saw a small might of all her power. What you experienced was just a section of her army, with just one dragon. You do know she's got two more?"

"She's no Queen if she is scared," Jon remarked, shaking his head. "But she'll have to roast my lands to ash if I end up dead. Then she'll just be what she swore she isn't... My people will never bow to her."

"'The north remembers.' Isn't that how the saying goes?"

"We never forget, Lord Tyrion."

"Well, perhaps she can't kill you. But you are a prisoner of war, and I suspect you will be treated as such. Perhaps the cold dark cells of Dragonstone will change your mind." The hard look on his face softened. "I'll see to it that you aren't mistreated, and I think I'll have an ally with that in Ser Barristan."

Jon raised his blood-matted brow. "Barristan the Bold?"

"Aye. Her Grace's Hand. An honorable man, unlike… some I happen to be allied with."

"And some I happen to be allied with as well." He had no illusions about some in Stannis' high command. Eying the tired, lost Imp over, Jon felt some of his defiance leave him. "You've come high up in the world, Tyrion."

Allowing himself a tiny smile, Tyrion hauled himself back onto the stool. "As have you, Jon Snow."

"Stark."

The smile widened. "Stark." A moment's silence. "Master of War to the Stag King."

"Chief Advisor to the Dragon Queen… what does that entail, anyway?"

Tyrion shrugged. "A Jack of all trades, really. Give advice, manage diplomacy… basically whatever the Queen wishes of me."

"I think I'd go mad without knowing what my responsibilities were. As Lord of Winterfell, I had my men. As Master of War, I had Stannis' war strategy. As Daenerys Targaryen's prisoner…" Jon knotted his brows. "I guess it's my job now to resist her. I'm no murderer, but I won't be a pushover either, Tyrion. Don't think you will break me."

The Imp hung his head, nodding. "I never expected you too, nor does the Queen. Probably why she spared your life, respecting you as someone different than the cunts she's faced in her life." Pushing himself off the stool, Tyrion locked eyes with Jon. "I swore to her because I had no choice at first, but eventually… she's the Queen I chose, Jon. The Queen her entire army chose, not because of birth or force or fear."

Jon blinked. "Why did you choose her?"

Tyrion smiled. "You'll find out eventually, Jon Stark." He turned to leave, hobbling out to the tent flap. "I'll send over someone with a proper meal and a cloth bath. Can't have the Warden of the North hungry and covered in blood."

"Tyrion," Jon called after the dwarf, when the Lannister turned back he said, "What will become of my House if I don't bend the knee?"

Tyrion pursed his lips and shrugged, "Daenerys will want the North to come into the fold eventually. She'll likely do anything to make that come to pass. What happens now is your hands… Stark."

With that, Jon was left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: I do legitimately think this is one of our best chapters. I really love the first section where Jon and Daenerys truly get to size each other up. It was so much fun writing that part. This is some of my best personal work honestly. We're really proud of this story and I hope y'all will stick around for the long haul. 'Cause it's gonna be quite the ride, make sure to buckle your seatbelt.
> 
> Longclaw: We weren't gonna have Daario keep Longclaw. Even his allies think he doesn't deserve it.
> 
> Jon is tough and confident, and fundamentally that's what draws Dany to him. Even though he's an adversary to her at best for him, there is something about him that mandates respect. Nevertheless, he has champions and enemies within Dany's council, and both lists will only grow.
> 
> He's not going to be given to the torturers and yet he's not going to have an easy time of it. They want Stannis' plans... but in the end they want Jon to bend the knee and thus gain the full support of the North and True North. Daenerys is a firm believer in the carrot and stick solution, with emphasis on the carrot. The North and True North are part of their realms.
> 
> I couldn't help but have Wun Wun survive, lol.
> 
> Translation:
> 
> Urnēptre nyke skoros ao pendagon hen bisa vala - Will you tell me what you think of this man
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	21. Dwarfs and Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hi everyone. We're back with a new chapter. More and more awesome stuff coming, and we're thankful for all the kind comments :D
> 
> Also, just want to give a shoutout to some new GoT stories that I think are awesome: one's called From the Ashes Begin Anew by bykim0120 - it's an alternate telling of Aegon's Conquest; another is called Wolves of War (on fanfiction.net) by my good friend GulfYankee23 that's a post season 8 resurrection/reconciliation fic; one is a unique spin on the post-season 8 time travel to fix the past plotline (hint, it isn't Jon or Dany going back) called Howl of the Dragonwolves by my other good friend Elphaba818; and the other is a season 8 fix-it called The Kingdom of Ice and Fire (on fanfiction.net) by my other good friend WhiteWolf04, starts off slow but I have assurances the plot will be awesome. And don't forget my co-author's stories here and on fanfiction as well! All are really, really good! Check them out :D
> 
> BRuh4: Hey there people, we bring another chapter, how cool is that? We appreciate the support in the comments lately, it helps a lot. For those of you who've stuck around after 19 and 20, I want to personally thank you. We're gonna do our damnedest to make the best story we can.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

"My Lords, my Lords…" Try as she might, Sansa couldn't get the gathering of the heads of the Northern houses - or the heirs if they were still with the defeated army marching north - to calm down. Rowdy and informal, the staple of the North. For the southern-taught Lady Sansa Stark, it was something she wasn't used to. Casting Arya a pleading look, the younger sister motioned for Brienne and Podrick. Without warning both of the sworn swords drew their blades and slammed the hilts into the table, stilling everyone. "Good, I'm glad you can quiet down so this meeting can continue."

With the three Stark siblings arranged at the head of the table, the announcement of Jon's defeat and capture at the hands of the Dragon Queen Daenerys Targaryen had drawn the current fracas. A trail of blown mounts and lack of sleep brought Sansa and Arya back to a frazzled Winterfell - similar trails bringing in the other Lords as well… though many had already been there to begin with. In spite of Daenerys having freed most of the Northern Army, the topic of her forcing them to bend the knee had already brought them all to a frenzy.

Sansa herself was plenty angry for her brother's capture and great-uncle's burning, but she - and Arya, through Rickon was more numb than angry - but as the acting Lady of Winterfell she had no time to give into rage.

"What the fuck are we just standing here for?" Lord Cerwyn pounded the table. "Send the army back! We'll join with Stannis and roll over both the Lion Bitch and the Dragon Whore."

Lyanna Mormont glared. "You sure speak with bravado, Cerwyn." Her tone was icy, looking over the young Lord with contempt. "Did your bout of 'stomach consumption' heal so quickly after having to flee like a coward back to your castle after Northhill?" One taste of battle and Lord Cerwyn had sent himself north, claiming injury. There were rumors that spread like wildfire but no one had said it out loud yet.

His eyes narrowed, leaning in with his ire raised. "Watch yourself, little girl. I ain't no cowardly bastard."

"Jon Stark and Larence Hornwood were baseborn, and yet both of them were twice the man you were. My mother and sisters died at the Red Wedding more of a man than you."

"Are you questioning my bravery, little girl?"

The spitfire of Bear Island did not back down. "I'm not questioning your bravery, my Lord. I'm denying its existence."

Laughs came around the table from the boisterous northerners, Cerwyn looking like the vein on his head was about to burst. He surged out of his chair, arms splaying as if to threaten Lady Mormont. The Mormont guards stood, drawing their swords… leading the Cerwyn bannermen to draw theirs. "Shut up, both of you," Sansa interrupted. "Sit back down or my brother will get his direwolf." Sending one more glare to the smug Lyanna, Cerwyn took his seat as the guards sheathed their swords. Suppressing a smile - the same smirk that Arya wore openly and was planted on Rickon's face - the acting Wardeness of the North took control of the meeting. "The North is facing the greatest threat imaginable. Its Lord, my brother, imprisoned in the south by Daenerys Targaryen…"

"In short," Arya cut in. "Either you stop acting like children or I'll make you." One of the smallest in the room, she held more of a presence than even Wyman Manderly - and in that moment it wasn't a pleasant presence. "I will not have my brother dying because some cowardly highborn goes off half-nocked."

"No one would go off half-nocked, Lady Arya," replied Alys Karstark. "Three dragons. A battered army, no Lord Stark… we're facing the longest winter in a thousand years. Those men are needed in the North."

"And so the Dragon Whore'll just get away with it?" scoffed Robett Glover. At his older age and poorer health, garrisoning Moat Cailin instead of being with the army didn't look as cowardly as Cley Cerwyn. "What happens when she comes here to burn us all?"

Sansa clasped her hands together on the table. "The North remembers, Lord Glover. Our memories are long and there will be time enough to act on them, but in the short term we need to prepare for the winter famines and get my brother back." She leaned back, blue eyes giving away nothing. Jon couldn't have selected a better political player to rule in his absence and Rickon's lack of maturity. "Any ideas?"

Cley Cerwyn may have been chastised, but he wasn't by any means silent. "A raiding team. Hit the Targaryens on Dragonstone and get Lord Jon back - could even kill the dragons as Brandon Snow tried to during the conquest." He looked proud of his idea.

"And I'll take that as a desire to volunteer to lead the mission, my Lord," Arya stayed sarcastically, watching as his proud smile faded. "That idea was brave and foolish when Brandon Snow the greenseer proposed it and mad and foolish when you do."

"We have no one who knows Dragonstone's layout," reasoned Wyman Manderly. "Say we ignore the dragons and go only for Lord Jon. Any raiding team would go in blind." The man had been a formidable warrior before food and drink got to his figure.

The reply came from an unexpected source. "Stannis is the official Prince of Dragonstone." Walda Bolton - formerly Walda Frey - joined her sister Roslyn and the older brother that had married Tywin Lannister's sister as the only Freys of any title left in the Seven Kingdoms. Controlling the Dreadfort as acting lady on Jon's orders until her baby boy Rogar came of age, Sansa intended to have the boy warded in Winterfell. Train the Bolton out of him and cripple House Stark's old enemy once and for all. "He could know many people that can navigate Dragonstone."

Alys Karstark shook her head. "I doubt Stannis would take news of our forces bending the knee well, even under duress." She was visibly worried for her betrothed… the current Magnar of the Thenns - it was an unconventional couple but she was taken by him.

"I will not risk Jon's life," Sansa announced, putting an end to that discussion. "Knowing Stannis, he'll refuse to negotiate until he has the Iron Throne or do something drastic." Brienne's presence behind her, Sansa remembered what she told her about Renly's death. Even if Daenerys was killed in the same way… her men would likely take it out on Jon and she couldn't let it happen. "We will negotiate with Daenerys Targaryen directly."

"That's mad!" A random voice called out, and moments later many voices joined them.

"She'll kill us all!" babbled a frightened Ned Umber - Smalljon's young son.

"He's probably already dead," Barbery Dustin said flatly.

At that, Rickon looked at his older sister with wide eyes. "Sansa… please tell me that's not true…"

Robett Glover - from his perch close to Sansa - leaned in. "My Lady, you are Ned Stark's trueborn daughter. By rights, you should be Wardeness of the North and not his bastard seed." Sansa looked at him with a quirk of the eyebrow, concealing her ire at his statement unlike Arya. The younger Stark daughter wore her rage on her sleeve. Faceless men trained their acolytes to be emotionless, but Jon had always been her weak spot. Glover didn't notice. "The Targaryens murdered both your uncle and grandfather when they went south. Don't fall into the same trap."

"Step back, Lord Glover," Sansa said firmly. Once he complied, she stood. "There is one person for whom Daenerys Targaryen will not harm. A person who I am sure would accept the chance to journey to see her yet also represent my brother's interests."

"And who would that be?" Lyanna Mormont answered.

Brows furrowing, suddenly Arya understood. "You think the Lord Commander would let him go?"

"In exchange for more men and supplies, I bet." Turning back to the Lords, she allowed herself a smile. "They say Daenerys is the last Targaryen alive, but that isn't true." If anyone could convince the Dragon Queen to let Jon go, it was the mentor and friend that he had gushed about whenever they talked about his time at Castle Black…  _Maester Aemon Targaryen._

* * *

_"Are you sure you wish to take part in this, Missandei?"_

_"I am."_  Despite being able to speak dozens of languages in perfect accents for each, Missandei of Naath felt the most comfortable in High Valyrian of all of them. A leftover from Valyrian colonizing fleets, the Naathi language had disappeared long ago, leaving it as her native tongue just as much as it was the Queen's.  _"Much as it is… distasteful, our Queen deserves someone loyal to watch the prisoner's interrogation."_

Grey Worm frowned as they reached the door leading down to Dragonstone's dungeons.  _"You do not trust the dwarf, either."_

Much as his fancy words and - sometimes - logical advice tempted one to trust him, Missandei never forgot how his treating with the masters ended up. Nor his last name being the same as one of the false monarchs currently opposing Daenerys.  _"No, and neither do I trust the sellsword."_

 _"He's been a good ally. Protected Mhysa from Yunkai to now."_  Daario Naharis was not someone he was keen on trusting, but the Second Sons were as loyal to Daenerys as the Dothraki were - all thanks to their commander.

 _"I've known sellswords before, Turgon Nudha. Seen them put down slave revolts, threaten, rape…"_  Taking a torch from the hold on the wall, she met her lover's eyes.  _"You did not see him that night… when he held the knife to my throat simply to gain an audience with our Queen."_

_"The Queen took him as a lover. She wouldn't have had she not felt him loyal."_

_"I don't think he would betray the Queen."_  Missandei opened the door, turning to speak one last time to Grey Worm.  _"But to impress her, I wouldn't put it past him to do anything. Even the worst atrocities."_  A soft smile graced her lips as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. _"Rest in my chambers, Turgon Nudha. I'll be back soon."_  Managing to coax a rare smile from the hardened warrior. With that, she shut the door behind her.

Torchlight banishing the foreboding darkness the black Valyrian-style walls draped over the steps, Missandei couldn't help but flash back to the events of the last few days. Watching as Daenerys landed Drogon upon the cliffs, hugging her tightly - one of the few allowed to do so - upon her safe return. The Queen had been quite… distant. Certainly not the triumphant conqueror arriving back from a decisive battlefield victory. Even for someone as militarily inept as she was, the scope of the Battle of Duskendale as it was being called was immense. An entire enemy army either annihilated or bending the knee, Stannis losing a third of his army and his best commanders…

But even then, Queen Daenerys' mind was elsewhere. And it took a day for Missandei to pry out why.

_Jon Stark._

She found the specific cell rather easily, two burly Dothraki bloodriders standing guard outside of it. The Queen's translator and lady in waiting one of the more well-known members of her council, one of the bloodriders quickly opened the door for her. Letting her inside without so much as a grunt. Missandei nevertheless nodding at him. Inside, she found both men she had been speaking to Grey Worm about minutes earlier. "Lady Missandei," Tyrion bowed as well as his stature allowed him to. "We were not expecting you today."

Missandei smiled - the Imp was nothing if not polite and charming. "This was a last-minute sort of thing, Lord Lannister. I have heard of how this Jon Stark nearly defeated the Dothraki and Unsullied on the field of battle and wouldn't properly serve her Grace without getting a feel for him personally."

Idly sharpening his own dagger, two Second Sons behind him, Daario looked up to give Missandei a wicked grin. "Might be a bit too bloody for you, my Lady. Wouldn't want to corrupt your innocence."

"Our orders are to leave Jon Stark mostly unharmed," Tyrion informed the sellsword, crossing his arms.

"And that's what I'll do. Leave him mostly unharmed." It was clear their definition of 'mostly' diverged pretty greatly. "Still, is it truly wise for the dear lady in waiting for her Grace to be…"

A hand held up shushed him. "While I appreciate your concern, Captain Naharis," Missandei said. "It is not necessary. I wish to give her Grace my own conclusions." Daenerys had plenty of advisors and strategists giving her counsel - with Ser Jorah gone, Missandei knew that only she could truly give advice that was for Daenerys, not Queen Daenerys Targaryen. That, and she had to know what this Jon Stark was about.  _Who is this man that flusters the Dragon Queen and even tamed Drogon with nary a look?_

Daario shrugged. "Suit yourself… just stand back by the door. It's going to get ugly." Missandei frowned but did as baded. Clasping her hands upon her stomach and leaning back against the black walls. "Bring him in!" the sellsword boomed.

From a side door - apparently the Targaryens that built this outpost were in need of interrogating prisoners as their longtime descendents were - two Unsullied manhandled a figure into the room. He wore a black hood covering his entire face, but Missandei looked him over just the same. Shorter than most men but still clearly strong. A grey tunic and breeches, covered in grime and dried blood. "Take the hood off," she found herself saying. One of the Unsullied obeyed instantly, ripping the hood off to reveal a man that had been put through the ringer. Bruises all over his face, scraggly hair, and a ratty beard that hadn't seen a razor for at least a week. Much like a hairier version of Grey Worm after the brawl with the Harpies.

Pushed into a chair, hands bound, Jon Stark stood straight. He was a warrior - a rather proud one, but Missandei sensed no smugness. "Tyrion," he said in a gravelly voice. From hearing traders out of White Harbor, the translator placed it as Northern. Suddenly, bloodshot grey eyes found her. "Who's she supposed to be?"

"You look better than before, Lord Stark," the Imp began. "This is Lady Missandei, the Queen's friend and translator. She'll be sitting in on our session today."

"Both you and the sellsword speak the common tongue," he quipped, eyeing Missandei curiously. Sizing her up as a potential threat - he was smart. "Why a translator?"

A laugh from Daario. "What makes you think that you would be the one to ask questions here?" He brandished his dagger, stepping forward. "Lord Jon Stark, Master of War to Stannis Baratheon the usurper. We still don't know where Stannis is going with the rest of his army. You are going to tell us."

Jon leaned back, eyes staring at nothing in particular. "I'm not talking."

Tyrion stepped till he was only inches away. "Please, Jon. This war solves nothing, only death and destruction." He placed a hand on his knee. "You've seen our Queen's dragons. She will allow Stannis to bend the knee and save himself as she did you and your army. Just tell us where he's going."

Making eye contact with Tyrion, then Missandei, and back to Tyrion, Jon smirked as best as he could given his split lip. "I like you Tyrion, and the… translator seems like she isn't a cunt." On instinct alone… Missandei felt it was meant as a compliment. The few Northerners she had ever met were of a boorish type. "But I'm saying a damn thing."

Unflinching as Daario approached, Jon appeared stonelike. Even as the blade neared to his face. "Where's Stannis headed?" The sellsword uttered slowly. When Jon didn't answer, he pressed the point of the knife to the soft flesh of his cheek. "Answer me or I'll cut you!"

"Another scar for the collection…" Jon quipped, drawing on an innate snark he didn't know he had. "Heard maidens swoon over em, so go right ahead."

"Swine," Daario scowled, digging the blade into Jon's face. "Dumb bastard."

Seeing the Stark's face contort, Tyrion stepped up, "That's enough, Daario." The sellsword huffed but complied, blade leaving a tiny cut in Jon's cheek. The Imp's hand came to his own scar instinctively.  _Dwarfs and bastards…_  "You have your Lord father's honor, but is honor truly worth this?"

A mere huff, Jon replied, "Honor means nothing if you never live up to it. My father's teaching means nothing if I don't live by the standard he set for me. It's true, you can say my father's honor was what got him killed. Say it all you want, but that won't change me. Even if it gets me killed now, I'd die without shame."

Tyrion chuckled, "Honorable to a fault."

To everyone's surprise, Missandei spoke up, "A confession would save many lives, from both sides, Jon Stark."

"I know," Jon whispered, hanging head a bit. "But I still won't."

"This is pointless." Tyrion huffed.

"Come on, we can't let him off this easy," Daario said, turning from Jon. Motioning to the Unsullied. They nodded, brusquely lifting Jon's hands into the air. The Warden of the North letting out a grunt as his shoulders were twisted.

"Look at me," Jon said to the sellsword. When Daario did, "Take every breath you can like it's your last. Because when I get out of this cage, I will slit your damn throat. You hear me? I will kill you."

Laughing, Daario suddenly buried a right hook into Jon's ribs, making him cry in pain. "Gonna kill me now, wolf fucker?" Another punch, this time into his face. Reopening some of Jon's prior wounds, causing Missandei to wince. "Where the fuck is Stannis?!" Now Jon laughed, leaning back a bit, though with a wince from the blows. In response, Daario crouched down and leaned in close to Jon. "Listen, Bastard, tell us where the Stag is going. If you do I promise I'll make it quick."

Slowly, the Stark lowered his head to face Daario, merely cocking his head askew. All went quiet for a moment, then out of nowhere, Jon spat blood onto the sellsword's face.

"Ah! Fuck!" Daario cursed, standing up to wide the crimson out of his eyes. "Bastard!"

"Not a bastard anymore, cunt." That earned Jon an uppercut to the stomach.

"You are if I say you are, Bastard."

As if on cue, three other Second Sons surged through the gate of the cell. They all surrounded Jon. "Hey, what is this?" Tyrion said from behind them.

"Oh, you need all these men?" Jon said, staring each of them in the face. "Just for a little ole me?"

"Daario, what's going on?"

"Don't worry about it, Imp."

Then for Jon, it just became red, the pack of Second Sons drew in and pounded on the Stark. Fists colliding with flesh of his face, and of his stomach. With his hands tied behind his back, he was defenseless against the onslaught. He neared unconsciousness, head flying around after a blow. Bodily fluid hitting the walls nearby, his face became caked in blood.

"Seven Hells, Daario, stop this!" Tyrion yelled out, gripping the bars of the cell ever tighter.

None of the men were hearing it, continuing the barrage of the blood.

"How you like that? Bastard!" Daario yelled at the top of his lungs as he gave Jon a fist to the ribcage. It began to look like an execution, less of an interrogation.

Tyrion turned around, looking down the hall behind him, seeing two Unsullied standing along the way he called out to them. "You two! Come over here and stop this!"

The two guards regarded Tyrion, quizzled expressions covered by their helms. When they immediately move, Missandei stepped up,  _"Come quick, this prisoner needs help."_

Hearing their mother tongue, the Unsullied stomped over. Zooming past Tyrion and Missandei into the cell, a small separate scuffle broke out between the two groups of Daenerys men. Eventually, all the fighting stopped, and Jon was left alone. His body looking a lot more broken than even after leaving the battlefield.

Tyrion entered the cell, slowly approaching the unmoving Stark, "Jon?" When he didn't respond, even with a body movement or grunt, Tyrion bared his teeth. Glaring at Daario, he snarled, "If he's dead, I'll kill you myself."

The Sellsword held his hands up, but laughed, "I hardly think I'll get more than a slap on the wrist. He's an enemy."

"An enemy we need alive, you dolt."

Scoffing, Daario took a rag and wiped off the blood from his knuckles. "Sometimes you need a man who's willing to break a few eggs to make the damn meal. Needed that when fighting the Harpies. Needed that when executing that damn freedman. Needed that when getting the Queen out of Vaes Dothrak, and need it now." Seeing neither the Imp nor Missandei wavering, he sighed - motioning for his men to leave. "That piece of shit is going to be the bane of us, mark my words." Not a second later, he was gone with all of his goonies not far behind.

Tyrion huffed, holding his hands on his hips, looking Jon over. "He's going to need the Maester." Missandei spoke to the Unsullied in Valyrian, telling them to send word for medical attention. The two guards darted off quickly.

Door to Jon Stark's cell - a dank, wet one with many leaks and an unbearable draft - shutting with a bang, Tyrion winced as he made his exit. Side by side with the Queen's translator. "A rather distasteful business, my Lady. I'm sorry you had to witness it."

Missandei didn't look at him, but there was no real hostility in her tone. "'Distasteful' would be a quite… muted word to describe what I witnessed. Many slavemasters were fond of such conduct." By her words, she seemed to speak with personal experience.

"I know people with similar tastes. Some are dead, while others are still of the living." The Imp frowned. "While there is a sort of satisfaction at seeing someone you despise in that position, though I am rather fond of Jon Stark. Personally, not professionally mind you. In any event, this whole exercise was one in futility."

"On the contrary, Lord Tyrion. I found the interrogation to be greatly enlightening."

Tyrion glanced up at her with a curious look - brow raised. "Did you witness a different interrogation than I did?" He didn't mean to sound so biting, so he softened his voice. "Jon will never give up Stannis."

She nodded. "Of course not. I can read people, and would advise her Grace not to keep interrogating him about it."

"Then what did you find enlightening?"

Turning to face the Imp, Missandei pursed her lips - finding the right words. "I was stolen from home when I was young. Impressed into slavery immediately in Volantis, sold from master to master till finally being bought by Kraznys mo Nakloz only a year before Daenerys arrived in Astapor. They were all men of a certain type. Kind, cruel, it didn't matter, they all had the same… lust about them."

"All men have lust, Lady Missandei. I should know." Chuckling at his own jape, one look at the translator found her in no mood for humor. "Forgive me. Please continue."

"Plenty had the lust of the flesh, but this was different. A lust for power, for wealth. Just for more and more of what they had or what they wished to have. The Harpies and Slaver's Alliance, they held this same lust. By the way you describe your sister and the Stag King, they share this. A lust for the chair of swords that overcomes all reason."

Such was not unfamiliar to Tyrion. "The Iron Throne ought to be at the bottom of a sea of blood that has been spilled by those trying to seek it." He always wondered if King Aegon I ever intended for his creation to cause so much death.

"It was so common that I didn't even think twice when I saw it, but Daenerys Stormborn was different. From the beginning, I knew the Queen was… genuine. That she sought her power not out of a desire for it, but truly to do great things. I saw no malevolent lust in them, only a true determination." A sigh left her lips. "Daenerys has done many questionable things, and I'd lie if I said that burning men alive - even those that deserved it - sat well with me, but I continue to serve Daenerys with all my heart and soul because she is not like those greedy men and women. Because she is truly a just woman with a good heart."

"What does this have to do with Jon Stark?"

She chuckled humorlessly. "How he never gave up the usurper - even though every single factor indicates that he should…" Missandei pushed herself off the wall. "Jon Stark is my enemy until he bends the knee to her Grace, but in the entire time, I watched him I never saw one flicker of that same greed. He is as genuine as the Queen." With that, she left Tyrion behind to ponder her statement.

* * *

With a booming crash that echoed across the placid water, the corvus gangplank slammed into the wooden hull of the ship. Planks ripped apart with splinters shooting off every which way. The ship shuddered, crew of Ironborn and Dornish bracing themselves for the utter fury about to descend upon them from the massive  _Silence._  Theon trembled, Yara pursed her lips, and the Sand Snakes readied their weapons.

There, right at the front of the Ironborn horde was Euron. Eyes wide and a smirk curled on his lips. The scorching wind from the mainland blew his raven locks behind him like a demonic flame, grinning like a madman as the sight of the great castle Sunspear burned in the distance. "Niece, nephew," he said mockingly. "Not gonna give your dear uncle a hug?" Replying with a snarling battlecry, the two Ironborn led their host in a wild countercharge, Euron's laughter roaring as his men erupted onto the deck of the stricken ship.

Barely seconds beyond first contact and the deck had already descended into a slaughterhouse of confused, vicious fighting. Swords hacked into bodies, axes clashing against spears as the archers and crossbowmen fired at anything that moved. The Ironborn siblings waded directly into the fray, killing all in their path, while Euron fought more than one at a time… always winning. Nymeria and Obara made a proper team, the former immobilizing reavers with her whip for the latter to spear them through. The younger Sand Snake hissed as an arrow cut her, whip lashing out to wrap around the neck of the Ironborn bowmen. "Obara, now!" Her sister raised her spear...

In a flash, Euron buried his ax in the head of Obara, splitting the brain wide open. Flesh and gray matter all over Euron and his blade, caking his face. The Sand Snake simply fell backward, unmoving. Nymeria screamed at the sight, quickly drawing a knife to finish her captive before turning fully to face Euron. Seeing her sibling fall dead, skull split open like a melon.

Euron barred his bloody teeth, grinning, "That was too easy." Then he snapped his head toward Nymeria, witnessing her face contort, "Ooh… I'm sorry, doesn't that make you wanna cry?" He grabbed the dead Sand Snake what's left of her skull, "Don't worry, you'll be with her soon."

Nymeria charged, screaming, "Bastard! I'll kill you!"

In response, The Greyjoy Lord tossed the sister's dead corpse in the girl's direction. The body took Nymeria to the deck, covering her in her sister's crimson. The weight of the corpse held Nymeria down, unable to get up. Only able to whine quietly as Euron rose up over her, towering, laughing.

"You dumb bitch! You fell for the dead body throw?!" He belly laughed, resting his boot on Obara's back, forcing more and more weight onto Nymeria. "What a stupid cunt." Many of his men gathered around, having dealt with many of the crewmates - the fleet had been ambushed as they were in port, the battle trained reavers of Euron's forces butchering them rather quickly. They made what noises they could, unable to laugh without tongues. Euron leaned down, "You see, Sand Bitch, I don't care either way if you cry. I don't care if you laugh, smile, or plead. Because darling, you dying either way."

"Fuck you," Nymeria spat, growling. "You'll die soon enough."

"Me? Die? No, you must have me confused with someone else," Euron smirked. He didn't give Nymeria a second to reply. Raising his boot high, he stomped on her face with all his might, Crushing her nose and cracking her jaw. He started to laugh again as he stepped on her again, and again, and again. Until there was nothing left of her head but brain and mush. Even going as far to kick through the leftover plasma like playing in the rain.

Resting his hands on his hips, he admired his work. Looking around, he saw his crew with bright countenances. "What are you all smiling about? Go find the other two, they must be hiding somewhere." Five Greyjoy shipmates scurried off quickly to search below deck.

Next, Euron gazed around to the other side of the bow. Smiling, he rested his palms on his axe. Seeing what he was truly looking for, his stuck up niece, and pussycat nephew. The two of them fought on top of the bow, near the wheel.

Euron twirled his axe, raising his arms into the air as the fighting continued around him. Raising his voice over the chaos, calling out to Yara, "You dumb bitch, it was too easy. How'd you not see me coming? I knew you were going to Sunspear, you knew I wanted to kill you. Only makes sense I'd cut you off before you got to Dorne."

Yara gripped Theon by the collar, pulling him close to whisper something to him. She rested her forehead against his.

"Stop hiding up there, come to face me!" Euron bellowed. "Niece and Nephew, come to die."

Yara growled, raising her blade above her head, what little men she had left gathered around her. All Euron had to do was lift his arms and his men did the same. Mere moments later, a brawl broke out on the deck. Yara leaped down from the bow, Theon close behind.

"Ah, there you are!" Sword in one hand and axe in the other. "Don't ya want to give your uncle a hug?" They charged at each other simultaneously, steel clanging together as Euron gave ground - letting them come at him. "That the best you can do?" A short sword swing was blocked by the curved axe, screeching as Euron nearly wrenched the blade in two. "Dear brother didn't teach ya well… oh, right, Theon. Your daddy tossed ya aside like a rotting carcass."

Theon snarled, charging hard… only for a parry to knock his sword back and a punch to stagger him. Breaking his nose. He pitched back just as Euron nearly leapt on Yara, full fury unleashed.

Totally paralyzed, Theon watched as Euron grabbed his sister by the head and drew her up. Laughing, his Uncle lifted Yara's chin up, "Theon, I want you to see this." Not a second later, Euron's jagged blade lifted up to draw across Yara's throat. Skin absolutely ripped open, blood flowed out continuously. The Greyjoy girl was helpless, trying to hold her neck wound closed, gurgling as her mouth filled with crimson.

Theon couldn't speak, couldn't move. Euron belly laughed as his niece died in his arms. Next, he tossed her lifeless body forward, crashing against the wooden deck, further flinging blood. Theon caught a brisk mist of his sister's plasma across his face. Her form came to rest below his feet, dead eyes looking up at him.

"Oh, little Theon," Euron grinned, surging forward. "You're weak. Now come on, fight me and die like a man."

The presence of immediate danger allowed Theon's body to move. Before Euron got close, he ran and leaped off the side of the boat.

Euron spat in his direction. "Fuckin' coward." Grabbing one of his tongueless reavers, he pointed to the shore. "Get word to all the forces on land. My useless nephew has to wash ashore sometime. Find him or you're meat for the sharks." A quick nod and the man was gone. Cracking his neck, Euron raised his hands. "Anyone else want to fuckin' come at me? Huh? Anyone?!" There was silence.

"All dead, my Lord," came one of his… tounged underlings. "Cept for the two Dornish sluts."

A grin spread upon the Ironborn's face. "Bring em to me." Such was done rather quickly, the frazzled and trembling Ellaria and Tyene tossed before him. Stepping aside, Euron laughed as they recoiled in horror at Obara and Nymeria's bodies. "Enjoying the sight."

"Fuck you!" Tyene shrieked.

"Ah, with your pretty skin, I'd prefer to do that to you." Tyene suddenly erupted, surprising enough to butt her head into Euron's stomach before the guards dragged her down. Ellaria screaming as the fists flew. Coughing, hacking up his stomach almost, Euron began to laugh once he regained his composure. "Feisty. The will to live, I like that." He grinned like a hyena. "I'm gonna have fun with you."

Blood dripping from her daughter's many cuts, Ellaria stared daggers at Euron. "The Dornish army is still out there. My niece Arianne is still out there. They'll fucking kill you."

"Don't intend to be around for them to do." Kneeling right in front of her pretty face, he moved to caress it. "Cersei wants you alive. Avenge the death of her brat herself… eh, I'll say you killed yourself." Without letting her say another word, Euron plunged his clawed fingers into her throat. Ripping out the windpipe with a single grip and yank.

"Mother!" Tyene screamed, only for another fist to land in her face.

Blood all over his hands, Euron laughed. "They pay the Iron Price!" Cheers from his men cackled over the thousand fires burning in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: The reality of this chapter is pretty deep. There's a lot going on and more events to come. I imagine there will be lots to talk about in the comments section this time. As there has been for the last few chapters, we will try to answer questions.
> 
> But, let me go ahead an address Euron, because I feel like that's gonna be a big talking point. Both of us really like Euron and we believed he was sorely underused in the show. I think our version is a bit more book like. He's a crazy person and we've portrayed him that way. He wasn't supposed to kill everyone, but he did anyway.
> 
> Longclaw: For the North, Maester Aemon is basically their ace in the hole. Sansa here is not the same bitch as Dumb and Dumber made her out to be. She's loyal, but still crafty. Dany won't hurt her own family, and Thorne would probably be fine with sending an emissary to the Targaryen Queen given his love of the Targaryens.
> 
> The thing about Missandei... she is not of westeros and probably the only person here who cares about Dany as a person rather than as a Queen. That gives her the ability to cut through the bullshit and see Jon for what he truly is. He's not out of the woods, not by a longshot, but we're getting close to an accord. Daario is probably in hot water for going against Dany's orders, but fundamentally he's the bad cop.
> 
> BRuh and I are happy to answer comments, but we ask that y'all be respectful in them :)
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	22. You Will Get Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hey everyone. We're back with our longest chapter yet.
> 
> More negative comments for the last chapter. Some raised interesting points that we answered, while others were simply trolling and insults. One person stooped as low as using screeds demeaning of women and referring to Daenerys as nothing but a piece of meat. I won't repeat the disgusting words.
> 
> This chapter should answer the questions about the last and provide context on the whole Daario issue. Long story short, we're shifting into the first phase of our Jonerys plan, not to mention getting back to Stannis.
> 
> BRuh4: Hey all, here we are again with another update.
> 
> Fitting the usual pattern, the last chapter was again met with concern and some hostility. While we don't usual enjoy explaining everything over and over again, this particular time we realize there sort of was a lack of context for the situation. Daenerys wanted Jon to be interrogated. Not beaten. This chapter will provide further light on the event.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

The particular warm winter's day in the Reach began with a deep, clear blue draped over the plains. Fields of late wheat nurtured on the warm winds from the great sea to the west, seen from miles all around, rippled in the wind like waves. Any observer would imagine themselves not on land, but in the middle of a gentle swell of the ocean. Above, puffy white clouds were all that marred the sky, kinds that people liked to see shapes in.

But below, watched over by the gardens and whitewashed walls of Highgarden castle, an immense clash of steel and blood played out. Churning such a gorgeous landscape into the fifth hell so preached by septons all across Westeros.

Scouts had spotted the columns of the Stag King's forces within three days of Highgarden, not enough time to secure an escape with the vast supplies stored within the castle needed for the upcoming campaign. Lady Olenna and Ser Garlan Tyrell gave the order to stand firm and give battle - if they could bloody Stannis enough, then the defeat would cripple him and end the war. As such, the bulk of the twenty-five thousand forces gathered and whatever smallfolk could be impressed formed a series of earthen and wood redoubts in-depth outside Highgarden castle. If Stannis were to force them into a siege, then he would have to pay in blood.

They expected a three-day march, however - Stannis had marched his men rapidly, reaching the woods outside the fields hours ahead of what the Tyrell forces planned for the fight. He arranged his forces in four columns of infantry, Rivermen under Lord Mallister, Stormlanders under Lord Selmy, and two Vale columns under Ser Harry Hardyng and Lord Gillwood Hunter. To the right, the entirety of the cavalry gathered under Lord Yohn Royce in six columns, prepared to cover the flank and join the infantry to storm each of the redoubts at dawn. But a skirmish between Tyrell scouts and the van of House Royce's personal command forced things to accelerate. Stannis ordered the assault at six in the morning, before the sun could rise.

The suddenness of the attack overcame the natural defensive advantage. Hardened knights covered by intense arrow fire to overwhelm the first redoubt and slaughter the men at arms within. For Harry Hardyng and Lord Mallister, the assault on the second set of defenses stalled - Lords bypassing them to attack forces caught in the open trying to reinforce the second redoubt. It was the cavalry that was unable to achieve a stunning success, Lord Royce butting headlong into the heavily armored knights led by Garlan Tyrell. The first waves crashed into a bloody melee, Bronze Yohn withdrawing his forces before they could be shattered. There was a time for an all-out assault and this wasn't it.

Under the low twilight of dawn, Hardyng and Mallister only just managed to extract themselves from a counterattack by Ser Horas Redwyne. Pitching the Baratheon camp into disarray, Garlan ordered the entire reserve of ten thousand men out of Highgarden itself to give an open battle. To take advantage of the disarray just as the sun began to emerge high in the sky. Two hours passed, archery duels and cavalry skirmishes the order of the day as the Tyrells organized at the second redoubt and the Baratheons reformed at the first. Many commanders pleaded with Stannis to advance but he refused. A move that turned out to be brilliant.

Distracted by the Baratheon host, the two thousand man vanguard of House Tarly wasn't spotted until just prior to the initial assault. Initially Olenna Tyrell, watching from her tower atop Highgarden with a glass of arbor gold, made thanks to the Gods for the first time since growing up. He had finally arrived. But hope turned to bile as the Tarly host linked up with the battered Baratheon cavalry, charging at Garlan's knights as the bulk of the Tyrell forces were preoccupied with the intense slaughterhouse in the second redoubt. Horse sweeping in to the south while the Tarlys - supported by the best archers the Reach had to offer - anchored the north of the flank. Ready to both screen Garlan and hit into the infantry from behind.

If the Baratheon forces were on the verge of a breakthrough before Randyll Tarly arrived, they had just clinched it at that moment.

Atop a hilltop half a mile from the battlefield, Littlefinger lowered his spyglasses, smirking as the Tyrell troops broke. Knights of the Vale joining the Tarly men-at-arms in slaughtering their way through the enemy line. "A decisive victory, your Grace. Perhaps your finest." The praise seemed quite fawning, but it was completely deserved. An army of nearly twenty-five thousand completely annihilated. Highgarden captured - surely the most decisive battle the Reach had seen since the Field of Fire.

"A horrible business," Davos stated. "Necessary for the scheme of things, but regrettable." The Battle of Blackwater Bay had been enough death and carnage for one lifetime.

"These rustics are so inept," Stannis rolled his eyes. His leg was feeling better that day, and watching the latest triumph that the bards would sing of till the world ended had taken all the pain away. He leaned on his horse, bored and comfortable. "Country bumpkins and tourney knights playing right into my hands. Nearly takes the honor out of victory." Both men glanced at Stannis, who suddenly offered a tiny grin. "Nearly."

Davos smiled while Littlefinger laughed. "I love it, your Grace."

"Your Grace." A dispatch rider ran up, sweat pouring from his face in spite of the cold. "Message from Harrenhal." Stannis took the dispatch, brows furrowing.

"Perhaps it is my Castilian, your Grace," Littlefinger mused. "News of Lord Stark."

"He hasn't replied for a while. Perhaps he made battle with Cersei?" Davos pondered.

Whatever joy that had formed on Stannis' face died in that moment, a hard scowl forming as he crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it to the ground. Riding off.

Concerned, Davos dismounted, grabbing the piece of parchment and unfurling it. "What does it say?" Baelish asked.

The Onion Knight gasped at the first line… tears welling in his ruddy eyes as he scanned each word. "Jon… Lord Stark… The Dragon Queen has him."

* * *

All rose as Queen Daenerys trolled through the double doors, entering the room with the painted table. Many of her advisors waited her there. Only when she sat down herself the rest do so as well. Ser Barristan sat to her right, and Tyrion on the left, Greyworm lingered behind her as always. Varys and Daario sat across from Dany.

A glare found its way to her former lover, but she forced it to wait. The Queen had heard of what her sellsword had did, she was angry but more important matters needed to be spoken of. A meeting had been called in a rather urgent matter. She'd heard bits about an attack near the bay of Sunspear. Also the defeat Olenna Tyrell had just suffered.

"What's happened? Tell me," Dany said.

Varys sat up, looking around at all the faces before him. "The Greyjoy fleet was attacked in anchor at Sunspear. Yara, Theon, Ellaria, and the Sand Snakes were all killed or captured."

The room filled with sighs of despair, Barristan's fist clenched on the table, "By who?"

"Apparently by other ships with Greyjoy flags, at this time we assume Euron Greyjoy attacked them."

"Unacceptable," Dany shook her head, fuming. "How could this happen?"

"It was a surprise attack," Varys explained. "I don't know all the details yet. But we lost many ships and likely the ability to ferry the Dornish across the sea."

Closing her eyes, Dany couldn't believe what she was hearing. Tyrion spoke up, "Can we not send our other ships?"

"We don't have enough," Barristan said. "Besides, we'll need them to carry our other soldiers. If we send the majority of our ships to Dorne our armies will be stranded elsewhere."

"Shit," Tyrion huffed. He stroked his hairy chin, hoping that would assist an idea to flow to his brain.

"It gets worse," Varys continued. "Olenna Tyrell was soundly defeated by Stannis, betrayed by Lord Randyll Tarly allowing him to practically annihilate our army in the Reach. I was told the Tyrells stood no chance. The Queen of Thorns is being held captured but I have heard Garlan may have escaped."

Her eyes shut tightly. "My allies, gone, just like that," Daenerys said, her voice just like a whisper.

"Garlan Tyrell is no help without an army behind him," Tyrion added.

"Isn't he still our ally?" Missandei asked.

"Yes, But we have no way to reach him. If he's smart he's on a boat across the Narrow Sea."

"It's only gone bad to worse since we landed here," Daario said, shaking his head. "Should've stayed in Meereen."

Daenerys had often thought about this lately. What if she had just stayed in Meereen? Where she was loved. Though before she left even there the air was just a hostile. "We can't look back. Only forward." If I look back, I am lost. A pull had brought her to Westeros - beyond mere will, a pull indescribably had brought her to these shores and she would not question it.

"What are we to do now?" Missandei sounded off. "What's our next move?"

"We should send a raven to Dorne," Barristan said. "Get in touch with Arianne, see if we can count on her."

"Even if we can, she can't help us," Tyrion answered, pursing his lips. "We can't get the army here."

"Perhaps… We should focus on other allies," Missandei suggested.

"Who exactly are you speaking of?" Tyrion said, looking at her with a curious gaze. But before she could respond he answered his own question. Waving his hand dismissively, "He'll never go for it. Not after what's happened, it's impossible."

"I think it's worth looking into," Missandei argued.

"Could someone clue me in?" Daario scoffed from across the way.

It seemed clear to Dany who they were thinking of. She shared the same assessment that Tyrion mentioned. But, given what's happened elsewhere, she may need him more than she realized. "I believe it may be worth a try," she told Tyrion, then glanced at Missandei.

"If I'm not mistaken, we're talking about Jon Stark?" Ser Barristan asked.

"Yes," Tyrion sighed, feeling as if it truly could be an insurmountable task. "Given what's happened to him lately, I don't know if it's possible."

"What if we sent a significant amount of grain to the North? As a sort of peace offering, send the sort of message that their Lord won't be harmed," Missandei said, raising her eyebrows.

"Though that's already a lie."

"Despite that, it may be that the North is our only option," Varys added his voice to the noise. "No one else may jump to our side after Olenna."

"I believe may be worth a try," Daenerys surmised.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Let me send a raven to Lady Sansa. I may not be her… favorite person, but someone familiar may convince her of our earnestness." He shrugged. "Then again, she may be more inclined to spit in our faces than Lord Stark."

Dany sighed. "We have nothing more to lose. I will allow the grain to be sent."

"A wise choice, Your Grace," Missandei smiled.

"We'll shall see," Tyrion shrugged.

"Seeing as we've come to a conclusion," Varys stood. "I've things to attend to." He looked to Daenerys for permission to leave. Who gave it in the form of a nod.

As the Spider left, Daario also stood. "I need to tend to my men."

"Commander Naharis." Daario halted in his tracks. "You are not to leave." For a split second, he grinned, thinking that she was hoping to rekindle their affair, but a turn found Missandei seated beside the Queen and Ser Barristan leaning against the wall behind her - even with the Hand of the Queen pin, a Kingsguard was always a Kingsguard. "Please, have a seat." He raised an eyebrow as Daenerys stared at him, but Daario complied.

There was a bit of a tense silence as the two locked eyes. Daario blinked first. "Yes, your Grace?"

"I am told you disobeyed my orders regarding our prisoner." Daenerys held up a hand, expression blank but eyes sharp and piercing. "Don't try to deny it, I have both Lord Tyrion and Lady Missandei's first-hand knowledge of your disobedience."

Knowing that any half-cocked story would just piss her off - and not in the good way - Daario simply leaned back, rolled his eyes, and scoffed. "Sure, I did have him roughed up a bit.."

This time it was Missandei who scowled. "A split lip, black eyes, massive bruises, broken nose, and likely cracked ribs do not count as 'roughed up a bit,' Commander Naharis."

"With all due respect,  _my Lady_. I don't answer to you."

"But you answer to me, Daario," Daenerys cut in, fire in her voice even as she tried to reign it in. "I told you personally that he was not to be harmed."

_"No one knows where Stannis is. They kept it from everyone but Lord Stark." Dany pinched her nose in frustration._

_"Let me down there, I'll get it out of him."_

_Tyrion shook his head. "It's worthless to try, he'll never tell - even with torture."_

_"There will be no torture, he's too valuable." The Imp nodded while Daario scoffed at Dany's comment but said nothing. "He's not some Lord who wants money or power, though."_

_"Everyone wants that, my Queen," Daario answered._

_She shook her head. "No… he's… different." Seven Hells, even Dany wasn't sure of anything anymore regarding Jon Stark. "Find out what he wants. What I could offer to make him bend the knee," she told Tyrion. "And Daario… he doesn't like you."_

_He grinned. "The feeling is mutual."_

_Dany snorted at the comment. "Drogo used to spill a lot of secrets when he was mad. Get him riled up, but do not hurt him. I want Lord Stark alive and unharmed, are we clear?"_

The order was explicitly given. And he disobeyed.

A huff. "You needed to know where Stannis was, and I did try to find out before these two stopped me."

Ser Barristan was furious. "If you thought with your head instead of your cock, you'd realize Jon Stark is not a man we can afford to lose."

"What can I say?" He smirked. "I'm not a patient man when helping out my Queen."

With his smile trained at her, the same cocksure one that had once been charming, Daenerys felt disgusted. "You disobeyed my orders, and therefore I could find you guilty of treason against the crown." The look on her face showed she was completely serious.

He scowled. "Treason? Really?" A dry laugh left his lips. "The bastard…"

"His name is Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell," Barristan bristled. "Show some respect."

"The bastard is your enemy, my Queen. One that very nearly destroyed your army and killed your dragon." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "He knows exactly what Stannis was doing, and if I had gotten it out of him perhaps Olenna Tyrell would have survived."

Barristan shook his head. "She was stabbed in the back by the Tarlys. Traitors." He remembered Randyll Tarly, an old goat with a stick in his ass. It truly didn't shock him. "Unless you were to go back four weeks, nothing could be done."

Daario rolled his eyes again. "Do what you did with the Masters. Kill one of the fuckers that defies you, the rest will fall in line."

"This is not Essos you insolent whelp." The old knight slammed his fist on the table. "Jon Stark is one of the most popular men in all of Westeros. Outside of the Lannister high command he's practically the incarnation of the warrior in their eyes if Varys' little birds are to be believed. Kill him and her Grace will never break the wheel."

"What use is that if you lose. If you seem weak." His eyes shifted back to Daenerys, softening. The same look as he had given her in Meereen, when she had broken off their affair. "I do what is necessary. For you, my Queen, only for you." He silently pleaded for her to understand, for the same affection to return to her eyes as he had seen during their nights together in her bedchamber.

But that affection was not present. Only a cold anger. "There was a man that thought the same. A man that gave me his loyalty and love - his name was Mossador, and you executed him for committing murder and violating my direct orders. Do you not remember?"

Daario smirked. "And that decision almost tore Meereen apart, did it not? I know you won't do the same to me, far more loyal and valuable am I to your cause."

"In this you are right, Daario. You bring me battle-hardened troops, and a record of loyal and exemplary service. But what you did is worse than what Mossador did. He died as a matter of principle to show I would not be defied, whereas you could cost me everything if you harm Jon Stark again." She cut him off. "No, I've heard enough. You disgust me. I will not let you even come close to Jon Stark."

"Taking me off his interrogation details, am I?"

"Yes," Missandei stated flatly. With a steel not normally seen in former slaves. "I am to take charge of his upkeep from now on, reporting directly to her Grace. Jon Stark is an enemy, but also a valuable hostage and a High Lord entitled to respect."

This made him chuckle. "Those that would slit your throat as soon as look at you aren't entitled to respect. You knew that when you took Meereen but fail to see that now. You've grown soft,  _Daenerys."_

A mistake. Fire flashed in her eyes. "We are not lovers anymore, Daario, nor will we ever be again. You will never speak my name in my presence again." She drew back a bit when he nodded, cowed for the first time this meeting. "I will not kill you, Daario. You are loyal in a way, and you've served me quite well until now. But I cannot overlook what you did." Now, a smirk graced her lips. "The grain fleet that will sail to White Harbor, you are to command it."

He figured he didn't hear her right. "Pardon, your Grace?"

"The shipment of grain I will give to the North, you are to take it there. You are going to deliver it to the Northerners, and if the Lady Sansa Stark is in White Harbor you are to fall to your knees, proclaim your fealty as a servant of the Queen and the Queen's subjects, and beg for her to take the gift as a token of my devotion to my people." Both Barristan and Missandei hid smirks of their own. "Are we clear?"

"So I'm to be a glorified merchant?"

"Merchant?" She thought about it. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Perhaps that will teach you some humility - ever since you murdered your commanders and snuck into my tent, you've been lacking that."

Knowing he was not getting out of this, Daario sighed and rose. Bowing. "Your Grace." Turning to leave, right before he would pass through the doorway he looked back at her. "Jon Snow will be the death of you. I hope you realize that."

She reacted not, merely barking out in Dothraki. "You better learn your lesson from this, Daario." She turned to the bloodriders.  _"Confine him in his room for today, then see to it that he gets on board the grain ships. Also…"_  She thought for a moment. Had he shown even a bit of remorse, she may have been somewhat lenient.  _"Cut off his finger. He needs to learn the value of obedience."_  He scowled, but left with the Dothraki trailing him, door slamming behind him. Letting out an exhale she didn't know she had been holding in, Daenerys pinched the bridge of her nose. "How did it come to this?"

Barristan placed a hand on her shoulder. "That likely wasn't the first time someone tried to exceed your orders to impress you and it won't be the last. Love, gold, influence, they'll want something and would do anything for you to get it."

Sensing a silent seething in the old knight, Daenerys spoke up. "You disagree with my decision?"

"I think you'll need to make a better example of him. Not kill him - that would indicate you are not loyal to your own men, but…"

"You're right, which is why I ordered them to cut off his finger." Gods, why did the sellsword have to complicate her current situation more? "Make sure he gets the message, as do the rest of my combat commanders. If you can't do the deed, have my bloodriders do it."

"They'll want to chop off more than his finger, most likely."

Dany nodded. "Just… make sure he can still fight… and hang the sellswords that he used in disobeying me." They were expendable at this point - she had done so previously for a Dothraki and Second Son who raped a woman at Duskendale, didn't cause any disobedience or disloyalty among her men. "Make sure everyone sees it."

"At once, your Grace." Bowing, Barristan left the Painted Table.

Now, it was just her and Missandei. The translator had stood, arms crossed and staring down at Dany. Eyes closed and leaning back, the Queen nevertheless felt the eyes boring down on her. "Do you have something to say as well, Missandei?"

"Permission to be frank?"

"You know you can always speak your mind with me." With all they had been together, it was insulting that she'd have to ask.

Missandei nodded. "You fucked up… badly." Her words were blunt and cold. "And you should have executed him."

"Next time he does something like this, I will not hesitate." She gestured to the Painted table. "Reach gone, Dorne a mess. I can't afford any more losses. Much as I wish it weren't true, he's basically to his men what Bittersteel was to the Golden Company."  _Perhaps therein is the problem._  Robb Stark - from what Tyrion had told her - was sent into the arms of Walder Frey because Rickard Karstark held the loyalty of his bannermen, not the King in the North.  _I will have to secure the loyalty of the Second Sons to myself._

Her best friend didn't see the shades of grey. "You should have taken the chance. Jon Stark is worth more than him… and I hope you didn't destroy your chance at getting his support."

A groan left Daenerys' mouth, a bit surprised by her friends words. "Daario's misdeeds are on him, not me. I ordered that Lord Stark be treated with kid gloves."

"Doesn't matter."  _Someone has to be honest with her._  "You are the Queen. Therefore, the responsibility rests with you if one of your subordinates screws up. I know you didn't intend it or wanted it, but Daario's actions ultimately are on you."

Closing her eyes again, Daenerys felt a deep ache in her skull. "You're right." Pushing out of her seat, the Dragon Queen stepped away from the Painted Table, staring out at the gentle waves of Blackwater Bay. "I should have seen this coming. He and Lord Stark hate each other, and I've sensed a… zealousness in him. As if he thinks he knows better for what's right for me."

"Daario does not work well on a leash."

"He's never disobeyed me before." She bit her lip. "I should have had Tyrion do it alone… or Grey Worm."

The Naathi translator had seen many rulers in her time in chains. All of them held a great burden, but for Daenerys it seemed to be increased. The weight of the world on her shoulders - a woman of the greatest power yet also with the greatest compassion. Both combined, they could engulf a person, drown them. "Did you have to attack the Northerners head on? Couldn't you treat with them first?"

"You heard the military considerations, Missandei. We couldn't wait, not with Stannis marching against us." Her head was throbbing, Daenerys wishing she could be flying atop Drogon. Letting the solitude of the skies calm her.  _All I truly have is solitude…_  "Stannis declared war on me and they were a military target."

"I don't discount that, your Grace. Everything you did was correct. But was it truly wise?"

Daenerys pressed her hand against the cool stone. "Do you think it wasn't?"

"Against the masters, not at all. Against either of the usurpers, no - you spared the prisoners, that shows your magnanimity. But the leader of the Northern host is Jon Stark, an entirely different issue entirely. Perhaps you should have been more guarded in your attack."

"I cannot be what I am not, Missandei." Daenerys didn't bother to turn around. "I am a dragon, I must be a dragon."

"Forgive me if I do not truly understand the blood that flows through your veins, but I have seen you with your children. A dragon isn't just fire and blood."

 _Dragons don't plant trees… B_ ut that wasn't necessarily true. Aegon the Conqueror had created something no one else had. The Valyrian Dragonlords had forged the greatest empire in history. "I've lost my army in the Reach. The Dornish Lords have been slaughtered. Yara Greyjoy's forces have been slaughtered. Cersei Lannister has the Iron Throne and Stannis has the rest of Westeros eating out of the palm of his hand, and all that I've done…" The moment of triumph - a shining victory, stunning in scope just in the immediate aftermath, now with the fog of war lifted from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms it was in a different light. "All I've done is defeat one of the Stag King's armies that's turning into both an albatross around my neck." She hit a fist against the stone wall. "Why couldn't he just bend the knee?"

Walking beside her, Missandei leaned her hip against the wall. "Would he have managed to unite the disparitated Northern Lords, bring the Free Folk south of the wall, and earn the respect of the Riverlands, Vale, and Stormlands had he been someone who would give in at the earliest opportunity?"

Daenerys looked up, violet eyes glassy and sad as they met Missandei's.

"Let me put it another way, your Grace. Would the Unsullied, the freedmen of Slaver's bay… would myself have chosen you as our Queen had you looked like the same type of conqueror? That would, as you say, been part of the wheel?"

"My goal is to break the wheel, Missandei." Daenerys scowled. "How dare you say I am part of what I want to destroy."

She shook her head dismissively. "You and I both know that that isn't true." Reaching up, Missandei clasped her shoulder. Hoping to offer at least some form of empathy and understanding. "The Lords of Westeros… they see only their own gain. If they can get what they want from Stannis then they'll go for Stannis. I may not be a political expert, but I know enough to see that true."

"I need allies," Daenerys said softly.

A small smile on the translator's face. "Jon Stark… I only know what I saw for but a moment, but he is more like you than you would care to admit. A man that isn't like the others, one with honor."

"Honor… what has that done for me, Missandei?"

"I am here because you have honor. Have a sense of justice that no other had." Leaning forward, offering Daenerys a comforting hug, she felt the Queen finally seem to relax. "He is the ally you need," she began, pulling back. "But the enemy you have. Perhaps you should try to make him see what we all see in you, lest you paint yourself as the monster Stannis and Cersei proclaim you are."

* * *

Another rainstorm blanketed Dragonstone. A bristling gale that sent sheets of water against the stone walls and cliffs of the island, primal howling reminding Daenerys of mournful dragon cries. Of how Rhaegal and Viserion cried for their mother as she chained them in Meereen. Such memories pained her. _If I look back, I am lost._

She found him nestling in the dryest portion of the cell. Avoiding the dripping of water through the more exposed parts. Stannis may have been a strong lord from all that she heard, but the conditions of the castle's dungeon didn't seem to be high on his list.

Now, the Dragon Queen had the island - and she had more pressing matters to attend to, but part of her resolved to have him moved to a dryer cell.

Daenerys did not know why she was here. Why she was alone, without Tyrion, or Missandei, or Grey Worm, or her bloodriders. Alone with the enigmatic Lord of Winterfell. The White Wolf, Stannis Baratheon's greatest field commander. That alone dictated she had to despise him… but she didn't. He angered and frustrated her, though not enough to hate.

Seemingly noticing the new presence, Jon Stark tried to rise. Unfortunately his now beaten and bruised body wouldn't allow. A low curse flew through his lips, wincing hard. Blinking away his sleep, grey eyes quickly found her. Boring into her. Sending an electric tingle down her system. Daenerys fought to stay firm, to not give him an inch.

Aside from the light of the singular lantern, nothing else illuminated the room, Dany rested her hands on the bars. Laying her eyes on Jon's hard countenance, giving nothing away. He laid on the floor, pulling a ragged blanket tighter around him. They just looked at each other for a while, neither of them saying anything to the other. Dany began to wonder why she'd decided to come see him in the first place. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Jon broke the silence.

"What are you doing down here? I'd just finally fell asleep." His voice was cold, yet clearly curious.

"I was just wondering that myself," Daenerys said, equally as cold. She paused for a few moments before speaking again. "Lord Tyrion, my Hand, he suggests that over time, the longer you spend time in this cell will loosen your tongue."

"You believe that?"

"My Hand is a clever man, even you wouldn't be able to deny that," Dany responded. "But… I've noticed he sees the best in people."

"Do you?"

"Not particularly, but there's something about you… Jon Stark," Dany said, seemingly leaning in. . _..he is more like you than you would care to admit._  She appeared to be wanting to confess something, but she immediately bit her tongue and backed away.  _What does Missandei see in you?_

Even in the darkness, Jon's raised eyebrows were glowing. "Is that why you came without your guards? Think you'll get more from me alone?" Daenerys said nothing, giving nothing away but a sense of… awkwardness. Quite unexpected, especially from the Mother of Dragons. "Don't you think that I could be a threat? Take you as a hostage and escape?"

Daenerys just stared at him, "That's hardly possible, in your condition." For the first time in years, she had met someone who had disconcerted her. It both feared and intrigued her.

"I could manage," Jon said. "Without your dragons, I doubt you'd be too much trouble. And the one I met seems to like me." He couldn't help but offer a small smirk.

Dany bristled, "Who do you think you are?"

"Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, the White Wolf, Master of War for Stannis Baratheon and so on," He replied. "You know how I am."

"I don't believe I fully do. I don't know you."  _The ally I need… the enemy I have._  "Most lords I've met are easy to read. Gold, power, vengeance, I know what they want. But you're different. I have no idea what you want."

"I want out of this cell. I want to go home."

Her eyebrow raised. "That's it?"

He was not about to confess about the Army of the Dead to her. "I want peace for the north and the wildlings. We've suffered too much… and I really want out of this cell."

Snark aside, the fact that he asked for something selfless endeared him slightly to her.  _Was this was Missandei spoke of?_  Had it been reversed,she would have said the same about the slaves. "That could be arranged."

"If I bend the knee…" Jon shook his head.

"It's not an unreasonable thing to ask, Lord Stark. Think about your people."

Jon shook his head. "You don't understand what Stannis has done for me. I can't betray him. I won't. Especially not in exchange to help you."

Hands tightening around the bars, Dany gritted her teeth. She felt fire boiling up in her, rearing to leave her mouth as fire.  _How could Missandei see him and I as alike?_  "Stannis will lose," she hissed. "You bowing before him only prolongs this war, and the suffering that will come of it."

Jon felt her heated gaze, rolling over to fully face her though it intensely pained him. He needed to rise to the occasion of meeting her, not allowing himself to back down. Even going as far to stand, shaking like a leaf. The blanket fell off his back, exposing the litany of scars abounding across his chest. Along with bandages and bruises left by Daario and his friends, even his face still looked a tinge of purple. Jon's feet carried him close to bars where Dany stood, she didn't move away as he approached.

Face reddening, jaw clenched, Jon spoke up, angrily, "You killed a lot of my friends. A lot. If you expect me to just lay down before your feet, you truly don't know a damn thing about me. My Stark honor means much more to me than my life. Nothing will ever change that."

Daenerys cocked her head to the side, didn't retreat an inch. "I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to hurt your friends - to add even one more soul to the death and killing…" She closed her eyes, regaining her composure. "But I must take back what is mine. Unfortunately, you and your friends stood in my way. You still stand in my way. After coming so far, so close to dragging this damn world from the shit it is in, I cannot allow myself to be stopped. You can either get out of the way, bend the knee. Or continue to fuel my ire and you just might get burned."

Jon laughed, then rested his own hands on the bars for support. "You almost scared me, almost. I won't be bullied. Not by anyone - even a dragon."

"Is that all you see me as?" Her fists clenched at her sides. "It shouldn't come down to bullying, Lord Stark." Why was he being so damn stubborn? It just didn't make sense to Daenerys. "You should be smart. Bend the knee out of your own accord. I bring fire and blood to my enemies, but bread and freedom to my friends."  _Did you become Mhysa from fire and blood alone?_  Ser Barristan's words stuck to her, calming her fire.

Looking back at him, Jon's gaze was less angry… more searching. Curious. "Bread and freedom."  _Maester Aemon spoke so highly of his niece. Did he realize something that I just haven't?_  "I heard about how you freed the slaves of Essos. A noble purpose, only for you to do the exact opposite in Westeros."

"The exact opposite?!"  _...lest you paint yourself as the monster Stannis and Cersei proclaim you are._  Here Jon Stark was, proving Missandei correct. "I believe you should know that I ordered a significant amount of grain to be sent to White Harbor."

"Is that so?" Jon snorted a bit.

"Truly. Your sister knows you're here. I've sent it as a gesture of good faith. Of peace."

"How thoughtful of you," Jon said a snarky tone. "You've no friends there. Sansa would probably prefer it be tossed out then take an offering from the Dragon Queen."

"Do you truly believe that?" Daenerys knew of people so mad and petty that they would do something like that. The Starks… Jon… they didn't seem like that. Perhaps in the fever dreams of idiots, but not to her. "That a Kingdom faced with war, winter, and famine would reject needed food and supplies?"

Standing up straight - as much as he could through the pain - Jon finally sighed. "No." He pushed himself off the bars, hobbling back to where he could sit. "Thank you, for helping my people." It's what his father would have done, honored a good deed even from an enemy… but unlike his father or Robb, he wouldn't take it with his eyes closed. "I'm still stumped as to why."

Daenerys blinked. "Why what?"

"Why you would bother to feed us? The North can give you nothing. Why would you give a damn about us once we weren't a threat to you anymore?"

"I don't want to force your people to obey me. I will if I must but that isn't what I want." She looked away. "None of this bloodshed and death was ever what I wanted."

"What do you want?"

"My birthright, the Iron Throne."

"Keep saying that… how the Throne belongs to you. Seems your claim to that damn thing rests entirely on your father's name," Jon surmised with a shrug. "You can try to butter up my people all you want. Nevertheless, they won't forget what you've done to them.  _The North Remembers._  If you force them into submission they will never truly follow or obey you. They follow me, right now, they follow Sansa because they have to... If claiming the North is something you truly want then you will have to win their support. Not ask for it, they won't give it. They hate you. Send all the grain you want, it won't change anything if you aren't worth following. "

She met his eyes, not backing down. "And who is worth following? The same people who keep grinding the smallfolk between their wheel in a quest for power?" Dany leaned in closer. "Everyone says you're an honorable man that cares for his people. I saw that on the field…" Her voice softened. "Join me, Jon Stark. Bend the knee, and we can break the wheel. Do for Westeros what I did for the people of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen."

For a moment, Jon thought she was being sincere. The goddess among men, her beauty legendary. He'd be a fool not to admit it - if things were different… He shook his head, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. "It doesn't matter what you say. It doesn't change what you've done. And this?" He pointed to his bruises. "This part of 'breaking the wheel?' Gonna have your sellsword flay me like the Boltons used to do, too?"

Dany huffed, taking in his words, seemingly advice. She watched as Jon turned from her, going back to sit down. They just stared at each other for awhile before Dany spoke again, "I'm… It's unfortunate…"

"Unfortunate?!" he snarled, anger coming out of nowhere, eyes blazing heat that even made Dany flinch. Seeing that, he took a deep breath. "Your sellsword almost killing me was… unfortunate?"

Missandei's words from before burned in her mind. Proud as she was, Dany nevertheless felt remorse course through her. She truly did fuck up here. "I apologize… for what happened to you." He eyed her quizzically, almost stunned - clearly not expecting that. "I didn't mean nor desire for Daario go that far."

"Well, he did," Jon frowned. "You sent him to me anyway."

"What he did was against my orders… and he has been disciplined. The men who beat you have been put to death."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

"You can see their bodies if you like. I'm sure the Unsullied can escort you to see them."

"Make it happen then." He wasn't finished. "And Daario?"

"Exactly what he inflicted on you."

There was silence. Jon regarding her sincerity. "At least I know now you're not a sadist. Foolish, perhaps. Prone to anger and trusting the wrong people, but not inflicting pain for pain's sake." He shrugged. "I've known people like that. Killed many of them."

 _How hard has his life been?_  It appeared Dany didn't know anything about the enigma that was Jon Stark. "It was a mistake on my part, to allow that to happen. I'll see to it that a maester or one of my Dothraki healers tend to your injuries."  _Daario disobeyed my orders, but the responsibility resides with me._  It would be her burden to bear, and foe or not this man didn't deserve the same torture she inflicted on the masters and the khals. "Lady Missandei will be in charge of your care from now on. And she will report directly to me."

He regarded that. "She doesn't look like a normal member of any small council, but I seek advice from wildlings, so I suppose I cannot complain." Daenerys couldn't help but nod - Lord Stark may have been the son of a Lord Paramount, but he held as unconventional life as she had. "Oh, before I leave this island, I'll be killing him - Daario. I hope you don't mind."

That did get a small smirk out of the Queen, "I might like to see you try." He literally almost fought her army to a standstill.

"Let me out of the cage and you will."

But her desires didn't make her a fool. Her remorse for Daario hurting him didn't make her a fool. He was still an enemy. "Can't imagine you actually think I'd let you out right now," Dany shook her head. "I don't know what you'd do."

"I'd get my sword, kill the sellsword, and leave."

"Just Daario? You'd just kill him?"

"Oh, I could kill you. Perhaps I should." He crossed his arms, gritting his teeth a bit. "I don't kill women, but perhaps I could make an exception. End the war. I suppose that's why you'll leave me in here until my bones are dust."

"It'd only be natural," Dany replied. "Given the circumstances. Except you won't get the chance, and I don't intend on dying anytime soon. But yes, part of the reason I leave you behind bars is simply because you are an anomaly. I haven't the slightest clue what would happen if you got free. I've no doubt you'd kill many of my people in your escape attempt. You're dangerous, but also 's why you're here."

"I suppose we're at a stalemate, then," Jon huffed, crossing his arms even though it pained him. "I won't give you what you want. You won't give me what I want."

"I suppose so."

"You're smart," Jon said suddenly, after a long silence. "Locking me up here, on Dragonstone. You could've killed me on the spot, but I'm more valuable to you alive."

"That's true, you are more valuable alive. I'd advise making choices that help you stay that way, Jon Stark," Dany replied, plainly. After that, she turned to leave.

Though she stopped once Jon began speaking again, "I've seen things you wouldn't believe. Things that need to be defeated, terrible things." He shivered in spite of himself, remembering the cold. Remembering how the icy hands gripped his skin. "Everyone will need to come together if we're going to survive."

What could honestly make the indomitable Wrath of the North shiver? The cell was cold, but he was steadfast before. She was intrigued. "I don't wish for you to be my enemy, Jon Stark." Weight of everything on her shoulders, she seemed to deflate. Hoping that the tension could be gotten rid of - hoping that she found the opening with the Warden of the North. "When I take the Iron Throne, the North could have my undying support against anything."

"Stannis was going to help me," Jon began again. "He saw the threat personally." Standing once more, Jon approached the bars. Anger gone from his grey eyes. Now pleading, seeming to pierce into her soul. Dany simply stood there, unable to move for an interminable moment before finally averting her gaze. "Send a raven to him," she heard him say. "Treat with him, see if you two can come to an understanding. I trust that he will want my safe return. Perhaps we both can get what we want."

Turning halfway to face him, Daenerys replied, "Perhaps." Before strolling off into the darkness of the hall before her. Leaving Jon all to himself, with only his thoughts to accompany him.

* * *

Everyone was gathered in the courtyard of Highgarden. All of noble blood, even bastards, stood under the collection of flaming stag banners of House Baratheon of Dragonstone and woodsman banners of House Tarly of both Hornhill and Highgarden - the decision having made to award Randyll Tarly's family both great castles. Knights in their full plate armor, Vale and Riverlands Lords in their woollen tunics and leather trousers, vindicated Stormlands and gloomy Reach Lords in their silk and cotton finery… only Lord Garlan of House Tyrell was missing, though not from lack of trying by the stags and woodsmen. Fully armed men-at-arms stood guard, crossbowmen watching from the battlements with their weapons pointed at the ready. No chances would be taken today.

At the trumpet of the herald, the entire gathering fell to their knees as King Stannis, First of His Name, emerged from the keep. Walking tall and proud, leg close to healing. Not that one could tell based on the sullen grimace he always wore. Beside him was his trusted retinue. Ser Davos Seaworth of Cape Wrath, Hand of the King with a look of worry on his stubbly beard and bald head. Queen Selyse, almost surreal in her return to the castle in which she had spent much of her childhood. Lord Randyll Tarly, Warden of the South, face passive and grouchy. Wishing he was anywhere but here. And lastly - ahead of the King if one could believe it - the Lady Melisandre. Smirk formed on her lips as her fiery red dress and dark red hair paved the way as would a torchlight.

Silently, they made their way to the raised dias. Overlooking the courtyard and a second platform, this one structured to hold a very different type of gathering. "Bring the prisoner," Stannis proclaimed, only with three of his companions. Melisandre having journeyed to the second platform for reasons obvious.

It didn't take long for the bannermen to emerge from the dungeons, surrounding the most valuable haul of the Battle of Highgarden. Eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Olenna Tyrell. The indomitable Queen of Thorns, de facto ruler of the Reach for longer than most gathered here had been alive, she looked nothing like what was remembered. Normally swathed in the best of imported Myrish lace and Lysine silks, all had been stripped away to reveal a slight old woman. Hair as white as snow, skin wrinkled, and gaunt form hobbled by age and gout. Yet still she stood proud as a mighty noblewoman, meeting the eyes of every Lord and Lady she passed. Those of the Reach averted their eyes in shame. Some younger knights jeered, but that was put down by the other Lords, stoic and respectful.

Eventually she reached the platform, slowly climbing up the steps to come face to face with the hooded executioners and the smirking Red Witch. "Welcome, Lady Tyrell," Melisandre said. "I hope you can accept the serenity of what is about to happen. To be accepted into the bosom of the Lord of Light is the highest honor…"

"Oh, do shut up," Olenna shot back as the executioners hauled her to the stake and pyre. "We both show what the bloody hells this is for, and it's no holy gobbledygook." Melisandre merely smiled, eyes finding her King. Wordlessly, Stannis left his Queen and his Warden of the South as he and Davos made their way towards the pyre.

"I don't like this," Davos murmured, shaking his head, hot on Stannis' heels. "She is your most important hostage."

"She's a worthless old woman," Stannis shot back, hatreds of the Siege of Storm's End still not healed. "Garlan, maybe, but no one cares about her in the long run."

Davos still wasn't convinced. "It's not right."

"It must be done," The Stag replied quickly as they reached the platform. "A message to the Dragon Queen. She'll know now that I'm a force to be reckoned with."

Guards stepping back to make way for their king, Stannis' eyes met Melisandre's. "The offering is ready for the Prince who was Promised, my King," she said, red eyes sparkling.

He nodded. "Good." Without another word, Stannis approached the now bound Olenna. "So here we are."

"Yes, here we are," Olenna replied.

"You know my wish is for your son to have been here."

She knew about the Siege of Storm's End. "Yes, I know."

"I may hate your family but I respect it. Any last requests?"

"I'm an old woman. I've known this day would come, the end. I'd hoped not so soon though. I had many things left to do." The light seemed to go out of her eyes. "Seeing as I will no longer be able to carry those things out. I'm angry, very angry. I can only hope that it will all catch up to you too, Stannis. But before you die, make sure Cersei's long gone. But before she goes, tell her what I told you." A sickly grin formed on her wrinkled face. "I'd like her to know it was me."

"Ironic. You were the instrument that the Lord of Light used." Burning the blood-engorged leeches… Walder Frey dealt with Robb Stark, Euron Greyjoy dealt with Balon, and Olenna took care of Joffrey. His reaction was nonetheless surprised. Stannis hated the little bastard just as much as anyone. "Anything else?"

Sighing as her lifetime of work and struggle was soon to end, Olenna allowed herself to relax for the first time in decades. "Remember, Stannis. You think the fire yours - you think it your champion. You love to call it your own. But there is only one who can truly call it that. I'm glad you understand who I'm talking about." Her eyes twinkled. "Don't worry, you'll meet her soon enough. I suspect our two roles will be reversed." Her green eyes opened, piercing into his. "By now you must think yourself invincible. You'll see soon enough how weak you are. You will get burned."

Scowling, Stannis turned away. Motioning to Melisandre to get it over with as he and Davos began to make their way to the royal platform.

The Red Woman now took center stage. Eyes flickering from Olenna to every Lord and Lady within the crowd. "We all must choose. Man or woman, young or old, Lord or peasant - our choices are the same." No one spoke. No one moved aside from the King, who took his place on the first platform alongside his Queen. "The choice of light or darkness, good or evil… we choose the true god, or the false."

Many of the Reach Lords - hell, most Lords - felt themselves chafe. Deprived of the knowledge of the Free Folk, the paranoia of the northerners, only those that had journeyed North of the Wall knew the certainty of the Lord of Light. Discomfort settled within them, but Stannis had won. His steel overpowered them, and his will ruled them.

Melisandre took a torch from the executioner, stepping towards the pyre. "Lords of the Reach, there is only one true King. One true Prince that will bring the Dawn," Stannis puffed up, smiling softly - not realizing that Melisandre had been intentionally vague. "Here stands your Lady, defeated by the grace of the Lord of Light. She has sided with the Queen of Lies, and now you shall behold the fate of those who choose the Darkness."

Soaked in pitch, the wood ignited almost immediately as Melisandre lit it with the torch. Stannis' smirk growing. "Your darkness will not survive the light, Dragon Queen," he murmured to himself. Selyse smiling zealously beside him.

"Gods have mercy on her," Davos breathed, turning away.

Randyll, close to him, only shrugged. "She made her choice. She chose wrong."

Pyre suddenly erupting high, tongues reaching up to lick at Olenna's feet, Melisandre stood back as the first pained squirms left the Queen of Thorns. "The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors."

"The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors."

The flames danced upward until they ran over Olenna's legs. Just seconds later the fires raced to the sky. Engulfing Lady Tyrell entirely, making it impossible to recognize who it was under the heat. Not a quick death, many of the onlookers turned away from the execution. From her quarters high in the keep, Shireen looked away just as Olenna's screams began to boom across the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: I hope this chapter cleared up some things. I hope you liked it. Though I'm sure there are a few who were again frustrated or dissatisfied. I will now speak those people directly. I've said this multiple times, and I'll say it again. If every chapter since 19 has pissed you off and you really don't think the two of us can effectively pull this off then please don't read our story. Please, I'm begging you. Stop flooding our comments with your dissatisfaction. I grow intensely tired of going on and on with the same four or five people who keep voicing grievances. Most likely we've said the same thing a few times over. If you want to ride this out with us then please do and do it in a polite way. But again, if it seems impossible to you for us to complete a satisfying story then do go read something else. There's thousands of other stories you can read, and if you don't like those write your own. I'm upset this has become the norm in our comments. I do not wish it to continue.
> 
> Polite discussions about the on-goings of our story are totally welcome. I enjoy looking through bunches of comments with y'all surmising the coming events. As long as you're not talking like you know what we're gonna do and saying how it won't work. Commenting over and over again saying the same shit after we've explained it or just venting how angry you are really makes me angry. I try my best not to be rude but I may find myself incapable if this continues.
> 
> That aside, we want to personally thank every person who has been constantly providing support and faith in us. You are awesome. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Longclaw: Daario was never acting on Dany's orders. Perhaps it was just frustration at what he thinks are her mistakes, or a desire to get back in her bed, he's essentially being overzealous in his loyalty and disobeying orders he things are not in Dany's best interests. Insubordination, but a specific type of insubordination.
> 
> Jon is understandably angry and wary of Daenerys, even as she basically humbled herself a bit in front of him. It was never going to be easy for them. First, Dany needs to see him as the type of ally she should have, while Jon has to no longer see her as the Mad Queen.
> 
> The Olenna scene... we thought it was just too good to pass up. The battle was based off the Battle of Poltava but with a different result.
> 
> BRuh and I are happy to answer comments, but we ask that y'all be respectful in them :)
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	23. Grumpkins and Snarks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Happy New Year to everyone. Thanks to all the kind words from the last chapter.
> 
> The evolving relationship between Jon and Dany will continue here. They still mistrust each other, but progress can be made. slow and steady.
> 
> BRuh4: Hello all, we're happy to bring you another addition to our story. I hope all of you had a pleasant holiday. Now, to 2020 and onward.
> 
> This chapter is rather exceptional in my opinion. I hope after reading it you feel the same way.
> 
> The ball is rolling, folks.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

The journey home to Winterfell had been nothing less than horrid for the Stark girls. Traveling without any real notion of the condition of their dear brother. Supposedly there's going to be a shipment of grain sent to White Harbor from the Dragon Queen. "A peace offering", the scroll had said. Though for all Sansa knew, that could just be a diversion. Instead a ship full of Dothraki screamers or armored Unsullied would come out and slaughter her people.

It was hard to put that notion out of her mind. Even as they strolled through the gates of Winterfell. All the sorrowful eyes of her people didn't help either. Each day after that was more of the same.

There wasn't much to do other than wait. Correspondence with the Dragon Queen had began. All there was to do was send a raven and wait for the response. The most recent letters that she sent mentioned the possibility of sending Maester Aemon. Sansa was nervous for the response.

Further regarding Aemon, apparently the old man had already departed Castle Black. Supposedly he relished the idea of meeting Daenerys. So much that he left even before the Dragon Queen had agreed to it. Aemon knew in his soul it would come to pass, or so it seemed. The current Lord Commander Thorne allowed him to leave for reasons unknown to Sansa. Though her advisors mentioned Thorne's long lost allegiance to the Targaryens may have had something to do with it. Or perhaps the Night's Watch just needed a new Maester anyway, and Aemon deserved to die with his real family. The vows binding him to Castle Black seemed to matter little given the man had truly served the majority of his life.

A squadron of Night's Watch brothers were escorting him down South to Winterfell. They received word of their departure about a month ago. Sansa surmised they'd arrive sooner rather than later.

Her thoughts were confirmed when one of her bannermen came to her about seeing a caravan on the horizon. The best guess would be that its Aemon.

Therefore the front gates swung wide, and the Starks gathered in the courtyard to await the visitors. And eventually, after much waiting, the caravan rolled through. Seemed as if the Night's Watch got their hands on two carriages for Maester Aemon. Old ones at that, one of the back wheels squeaking loudly. Sansa wondered how it'd made it all this way. Looked to possibly fall apart at any second.

A pair of Brothers of the Night's Watch rode in front. They hopped down from their horses and went over to the carriages. Sansa looked to Rickon and Arya before stepping forward. Her feet carried her mind a bit blank. Though her brain began working in overdrive when one of the doors for carriage opened up. Three faces peered out. Two completely foreign to her, though one was clearly Aemon. The other was a dark haired girl wearing thick furs.

But there was another. A face she hoped might smile at her. Instead an empty expression greeted her. She was stunned. His name fluttered through her lips in a tone lower than a whisper. "Bran."

Apparently, the view wasn't closed off to her younger siblings. Rickon surged past Sansa in a blur screaming his brother's name. Arya came to stand next to Sansa, head turned cockeyed. "Is that really him? He looks so different."

"It's him." Sansa simply replied.

"He's changed."

"Haven't we all?"

Three people spilled out of the second carriage, a portly gentleman, a girl, and young boy. They looked pleasant enough.

The two girls moved forward as the two Night's Watchmen readied a sled of sorts. Then getting Bran out to sit him on it. Sansa gathered this was his only real means of transportation. The air filled with Rickon's shrill voice and his tears. He pelted Bran with questions about where he's been and what's happened to him since they last saw each other. So glad to see his older brother he hugged Bran around the neck. But it wasn't the same.

The youngest boy's tone lowered when Bran finally began to respond. Sansa and Arya weren't even close enough to hear what he said. Whatever it was, it made Rickon quiet down, hanging his head a bit. By then, Aemon and girl had vacated the carriage. The other three people loomed near. The two Night's Watch brothers conversed with the two carriage drivers, likely about the journey back to Castle Black.

Bran craned his neck to see Sansa and Arya get close. "Sansa, Arya, hello."

Unable to contain herself, Sansa finally had embrace Bran. It was strange. Bran barely reciprocated, only resting a lone hand on her back. His face was cold. Of course being in the North, most people's skin ends up being cold to the touch, especially outside. But this was different. Sansa's cheek felt like it brushed against a block of ice. She pulled back so Arya could have a turn.

All was silent in the courtyard. All onlookers had stopped what they were doing to watch. Hundreds of eyes rested on the arrival of the long lost Stark. If they only knew who actually just came through their gates. It wasn't who they thought it was. Bran Stark was really, truly gone - had been for some time. Something else paraded around in his skin. Rickon searched for his brother in that moment, only coming up with nothing. His eyes told him it was Bran, yet the person he saw wasn't who he expected.

Noticing her brother's discomfort, Sansa wrapped her arm around Rickon. Who gladly accepted the warm embrace. Arya leaned down to hug Bran as Sansa turned to her other visitors.

The man wrapped tightly in maester's robes was stooped and wrinkled. Eyes clouded over with blindness, yet a vibrant purple even so - Targaryen colors. There was no doubt as to who this was. "You must be Maester Aemon," she said to the old man as brightly she could.

Aemon leaned on the portly gentleman for support, he reached out his hand to Sansa. She hesitantly took it. He smiled and replied, "Ah… Yes, you must be Sansa Stark. I've heard much about you."

"You have?"

"Well of course, young Jon spoke often about his family - oh how he loved you all." Sansa couldn't help but avert her gaze to the snowy ground. Wasn't the first time she'd feel guilty over how she treated Jon and it wouldn't be the last. "I'm glad to finally meet you."

"Sounds like something Jon would do," Arya said, coming over. "Who are you?" Her eyes glanced to the man and girl next to Aemon.

"Hello," the man said. "My name is Samwell Tarly. I'm a friend of your brother's. We served together at Castle Black for many years." Then he motioned over the girl and boy he came with. "This is Gilly, my…"

"Wife," Gilly answered for herself, smiling. She gripped the boy by his shoulders, "This is our son, Little Sam."

"And you?" Arya inclined her chin towards the dark-haired girl.

"I'm Meera Reed," the girl said. "I travelled with… Bran."

"Howland Reed's daughter."

Meera's eyes widened. "You know of my father?"

"He is journeying north," Bran said suddenly, cryptically - voice flat. "Escaped the battle at Duskendale, joining the main army as it marches to Moat Cailin."

Confused, Sansa merely nodded, "Ah… Well, this is quite the surprise. We didn't know that Bran was with you. Or that Aemon would be accompanied by a small family."

"You see, my lady," Sam began. "I cared for Maester Aemon for many years at Castle Black. I thought it would be more prudent if I travelled with. I apologize for not making that clear. If we are intruding-"

"It's fine," Sansa waved it off. "I assumed Maester Aemon would need caring for. It's not a problem."

"But how did you come upon Bran?" Arya asked, glancing back to her brother.

"Just so happened he came through the around the time we were preparing to depart," Sam said.

"Yes," Bran added, voice just as emotionless as before. "It was time for my return."

Neither Sansa nor Arya were able to truly respond to that - best to shift the conversation.

"So," Sansa sighed a bit, interlocking her fingers across her stomach. "Maester Aemon, you fully understand why you are here?"

"I do," the old man replied, widening his eyes a bit even though he's clearly blind. "You wish for me to travel to Dragonstone. To treat with the last of my family, Daenerys Targaryen. You wish for young Jon to be returned to you."

"Correct," Sansa replied. "You are to be our emissary. You are willing to do so?"

"I am," Aemon answered quickly. "There's nothing I'd want more."

* * *

"ARRRGH!" Grabbing a stone off the ground, Bronn of the Blackwater drew back and chucked it in the direction of the cacophonous noises. "Would you horselord savages shut the fuck up?!" As if by actions not entirely coincidental, the chanting and drumming abruptly ceased, a still silence hanging ominously over the late afternoon scattered scrubland of the southern crownlands… Only for it to pick up again. Seemingly louder. "FUCK YOU!"

"Too bad, I thought you had them for a moment," came the silky, not at all sarcastic voice of his commander.

"Shut it, sister-fucker," Bronn spat. Walking back to his horse. Mounting it quickly before covering his ears with his hands in another as yet futile attempt to keep his mind from scrambling. "I can normally handle anything, but the Dragon Queen's cunts have been at it for fucking hours."

A whistle left the tight lips of Ser Flement Brax of Hornvale. "I wouldn't mind tastin' that Dragon Queen cunt," he smirked lewdly, licking his lips. "Anyone who fucks up that Stark bastard who slighted my wife's family's honor deserves what I do best.

"Why do you care?" Lyle Crakehall grumbled. "You've sired enough bastards to give Fat Robert a run for his money."

Before Ser Flement could swing a fist at the Lord of Crakehall… a fight he would lose, the commander of the Lannister army interjected. "Both of you shut it!." Vibrant green eyes narrowed at the cloud of dust in the distance, representing the enemy trotting their horses back and forth. "Why haven't they attacked?" he wondered out loud.

"Calling in reinforcements from Duskendale. We should attack now!" urged Addam Marbrand.

For Jaime Lannister - probably Lord of Casterly Rock, though he wasn't sure of the succession issues with uncle Kevan's death and Tyrion's treason… not that he really gave a fuck - the urge to recklessly barrel into the enemy was one that was ripped away from him along with his hand. With the coastal houses of Velaryon, Celtigar, Staunton, Rykker, Sunglass, and Brune defecting almost immediately to the Dragon Queen, the remaining Lords sworn to Cersei were vital to hold. And to hold them meant not annihilating his best troops as Jon Snow had done just north of here.

"Yes," he ended up replying. "They are undoubtedly calling up reinforcements, but why this?"

Lyle snorted. "They're trying to get in our heads. Demoralize us." Such it was for the force that had marched out of King's Landing the moment Dothraki patrols began to raid around Rosby and Stokeworth. Driving them back with powerful heavy cavalry charges, at the current position at Old Stone Bridge a host of Unsullied spearmen and Rykker men-at-arms forced them to halt, leading to the current standoff. Boogeyman for so long, the Dothraki took advantage of the natural fear Westerosi hearts held for them. First they beat a great number of hollow drums, adding to it their bestial war cries that brought terror to countless Essosi cities and slave armies - the troops of the Westerlands were just as unsettled by the loud and cacophonous noise as Bronn. "Our men won't stand for this much longer. Make your decision now, my Lord."

"If we withdraw, we'll have relieved Rosby and Stokeworth and achieved our objectives."

"And lose our chance to crush a portion of their army before it is reinforced."

Leo Lefford and Marbrand both had excellent points, but the bellow of Dothraki horns took the decision out of Jaime's hands. "That's the signal for an attack. To your commands, men!" Clicking his tongue and jabbing his heels into the horse's side, Jaime trotted off as the signallers brought their bugles to their lips.

Old Stone Bridge was actually a series of structures along a tributary river flowing into Blackwater Bay. A large, timbered building served as the inn, with several stables both for the weary travellers and as waystations for dispatch riders, all along a fork in the road next to an old stone bridge - hence the name. The river was shallow enough to be forded by horse, but otherwise all traffic was bottled up into the bridge, making it key infrastructure for any army operating in the region. The Lannisters knew that and so did the defected Crownlands lords that threw their lot in with Daenerys. As of now, a five hundred strong cohort of Unsullied controlled it, with seven thousand Dothraki pouring across the river to assault the Westermen under the command of the Queen's bloodrider Khovarro.

Lord Lefford and Lord Marbrand established their infantry in the classic Westerlands shield line. Double stacked with the five-foot high metal-lined shields, spears tipped with castle-forged steel bristling out like porcupine shields. Though originally planning to shatter the Westermen with the same charge as against the Northern army, Kovarro didn't have the numbers to break through the shield wall. Thus, he sent his horse archers forward, the Dothraki loosing arrow after arrow from horseback and withdrawing each time Jaime retaliated with his own archers and skirmishers. Shields and armor did their part, but the Dothraki arrows sliced through whatever the protection didn't expose, slowly wearing the Lannisters down.

Three times Jaime called a general advance to engage a melee action, and three times the Dothraki drew back. Horse archers able to retreat safely and loosing arrows while twisting and facing the rear - a skill only the most skilled horsemen on the earth could perform. The afternoon was cool but dry, throats growing parched as the Westermen began to sweat under their heavy armor and thick gambesons and trousers. All the while the knights chafed behind the infantry. They engaged whatever screamers launched themselves at the lines, but otherwise they could only stand by while their comrades were slowly slaughtered.

Enraged, bloodied and close to the breaking point, Lyle Crakehall sent his men into a massive charge. One initially screened by the shield walls of the infantry but eventually breaking out into a disorganized melee of hot-blooded knights and plate armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. Exactly what Kovarro expected… but he had underestimated the power of a Westerosi heavy cavalry charge. The men in iron slammed through line after line of the unarmored horse archers and screamers, breaking for the Unsullied line.

Per their legend, the Unsullied held firm. Taking whatever hits came to them and gradually withdrawing across the bridge once the mass of Westerlands cavalry began to overwhelm them. Kovarro, seeing the tide starting to turn due to the unexpected charge, sliced off the lower third of his long braid and ordered a withdrawal across the river to Duskendale. It wasn't a defeat for his orders were simply to protect the Crownlands beachhead, but a badge of shame nonetheless. As it stood, in spite of the bloody fighting and enraged slaughter on both sides, each army was able to disengage in good order. Knights tired, infantry unable to ford the river.

Bouncing in his saddle, Jaime arrived to see a detachment of men-at-arms executing the Dothraki stragglers. Poking at the prone form of bare chested and leather-clad bodies for a groan or squirm, then stabbing them through the middle with their blades. "You men! Get back into formation!" he yelled, twirling Widow's Wail in his left wrist for effect.

The man in charge trotted forward… his face was covered in dirt and dried blood, but Lord Lyles' bushy mustache was easily visible. "The cunts are withdrawing, Ser Jaime. They'll be back, I think, so we're denying them their manpower."

Sheathing his blade, Jaime removed his helm while letting the cool winter's air calm his racing heart. "Well, think the road to Duskendale is open?" He leaned forward on his saddle, feeling every year of his decades of life in his aching bones.

"You kidding? They'll have five thousand eunuchs and a dragon waiting for us. An ambush was set up to bait us, we just managed to get lucky assaulting into the bait. Best get out while the going is good."

Shifting his gaze to the bodies around him, there were just as many in Westerlands gold and red as there were he olive drabs and black leather of the Dragon Queen's foreign levies. Of the three combatants, Stannis had just gained the Reach while Daenerys had taken two gut punches and still could marshal overwhelming force. Cersei had the least room for error. "'Aight." Jaime turned to his herald. "Sound the withdrawal. We're headed back to Rosby!" The order was soon blared out, multiplied by the various signallers until the entire army heard it.

"We retreating?" was the first words out of Bronn's mouth as the command teams met underneath the shade of the Old Stone Bridge inn. Low sunlight glinted off the diamond-shaped window panes. _Glass? Rare outside of the cities._ One of the curiosities of the world.

"Aye, we're withdrawing. This is a victory."

Bronn snorted. "With victories like this, I hate to see what defeats look like."

"What else would you call protecting Rosby and Stokeworth from those barbarians?" Jaime shot back. He was sick of the former sellsword's negative attitude.

Wineskin in hand, Bronn allowed himself a gulp of the sour liquid. "To generals like you and fighters like me - men that can gauge men and material - the calculus is different from someone like your sister… or lover." Even as Jaime's sword hand clenched, Bronn new he had a pass. Someone needed to tell the Lion of Lannister the brutal truth sometimes, and he had saved his ass enough times to have earned to right to speak freely. "You really think she'll see this as a victory? Think about it." With that, Bronn spurred his horse off.

"Get over there you fucks!" barked a man of House Westerling, sword in hand as he directed a group of impressed smallfolk from Flea Bottom or the wharves. Working as army noncombatants in exchange for increased rations for them and their families. Cersei was already using them to swell the City Watch to record levels of manpower. "Careful with that. One spark and they'll be shoveling what's left of us into the fuckin' wind!" Barrells of wildfire made it underneath the stone bridge, pyromancers ready to set it off as soon as the last infantry formation was across.

 _"Deny the bitch even the smallest stalk of wheat!"_ Such were Cersei's orders. _"Burn it all!"_

_Burn them all…_

Jaime shook his head violently. That night had been over two decades before, but it still haunted his every moment - awake and asleep. The cackling laughter, the screams… How his violet eyes flashed with a crazed light. Almost a bright green like the wildfire he so loved…

At times, Jaime could see the same glint in Cersei's eyes. When they were dining, going over strategy, making love… sometimes the madness overcame her before it withdrew. Cersei brushing it off with a laugh and the same sultry smirk that had captivated him for decades.

_Fuck everyone who isn't us. We're the only ones who matter, the only ones in this world…_

Sometimes, he didn't even remember why he said that. How that combined with the same man that had killed the Mad King in order to save all of King's Landing and its inhabitants from a fiery death. That had betrayed his sacred oath as a Kingsguard. Aerys was nothing to him compared to what he had with Cersei, a bond that went beyond mere oaths. Beyond love and beyond blood.

And here, watching the wildfire put into position… _thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?_

What would Brienne say at this point? What would his past self have said, once sitting in the blood of his King. Now sitting as the woman he so loved unleashed the wildfire stockpiled by the Mad King…

"Ser Jaime," it was the Westerling bannerman. "We're clearing out, come on."

Reaching for his wineskin… finding him empty, Jaime just tossed it into the dust as he spurred his horse westward. He made his bed, Cersei the last family he had.

The path of Ser Jaime Lannister had been set a long time before.

* * *

"You don't have to be here, you're Grace," Ser Barristan Selmy offered, noticing the dark circles under the Queen's eyes. With all the various chaos cropping up - stalemate in the Crownlands, the death of the Queen of Thorns - she was barely sleeping. Spending all of her time at the Painted Table… the Hand of the Queen was worried seeing Jon Stark again would only worsen her stress. "This can be handled outside of your presence."

Her violet eyes found him, narrowed in skepticism. "Last time I did that, my former lover nearly killed Lord Stark." The interrogation room was one used by the Lords of Dragonstone and Targaryen Kings of the past. An elevated room looked down on the dark chamber, tiny peepholes giving the rulers an unobstructed view of whatever occurred. Perfect for the Queen. "I trust Missandei and Tyrion… to an extent, but I'm not taking any chances this time."

Barristan couldn't help but grin softly. Exactly like her mother, a hidden steel. _If only Rhaella had a dragon to ride…_

The translator and Imp were already seated across from the empty chair, both waiting patiently as the door opened. Two stone-faced Unsullied guards sworn only to obey commands from Daenerys or Missandei brought the prisoner in. Unlike before he had no hood, but both his hands and feet were shackled. Daenerys' breath hitched at the bruises still covering his face, faded and slightly healed but still glaring. He looked angry, very angry. A cold rage at… practically everything. Was this what all of Westeros truly thought of her? Coming here, hoping to break the wheel, only for someone considered the most honorable in the Seven Kingdoms to despise her so thoroughly. _He's still your enemy, sworn to the family that murdered yours._ That wrapped her like a blanket… yet one growing more threadbare by the day.

As for the old knight, all thoughts went out the window the moment he saw Jon Stark. _He's more northern than any of Lord Stark's children…_ More than Lord Stark himself from what he remembered… but there was something he couldn't shake. Something familiar that didn't match what he remembered of Ned Stark. _The brooding… the anger…_ Barristan had seen it before, but not in a person that could be remotely connected to the North.

His musings were broken as Tyrion broke the silence. "Lord Stark, I hope things have been going well for you."

"Just peachy," Jon shot back, crossing his arms. "The meals have improved in quality, so I should thank someone for that."

"You're getting the same as what we're getting, Lord Stark," Missandei remarked, smiling. Hoping to get him to open up. "As the Warden of the North, you should be treated commiserate of your standing."

Chuckling, he glanced around. "Then you're gonna let me go back to Winterfell?"

Tyrion shook his head. "You know that can't happen, Jon."

"Then I'm not saying anything about Stannis, or his plans. He is my King and I am loyal to my oaths… especially when it regards the Ma… Dragon Queen." Daenerys shouldn't have been surprised of his initial instinct to think of her as her father… that didn't mean that it didn't strike a nerve. "You're barking at the wrong tree."

"So you know how he burned Lady Olenna Tyrell alive?" Someone as honorable as Jon Stark, they wouldn't take such actions kindly. "Sacrificed her to the Lord of Light… Melisandre's idea if the reports are to be believed." Varys paid the trust in him in full.

Closing his eyes, Jon remembered Mance's screams as the fires licked at his feet. How he gazed with Jon in relief when the arrow pierced his heart. He had defied Stannis then, yet joined him knowing the penchant for burning. "I can't pass judgment for what my King might have done in front of his enemies. Unlike Cersei Lannister, I have honor."

Missandei held up her hands. "Alright, Lord Stark, we won't ask about any actual secrets. Her Grace… she knows what her father did to your family. Part of breaking the wheel means that such atrocities will never again be sanctioned by the crown." The translator leaned forward, hands pressed together. Told by Daenerys of what she was allowed to tell him. "Stories she was told about the Starks painted them as vile traitors, but if you are to be the Warden of the North under her Grace when she wins, she would like to know you as she did her other vassals."

"A vassal?" Jon shifted in his chair, jangling his chains. "Does this look like how one would treat a vassal?" He held up a palm, sighing. "I know, just a precaution. If that stone-faced Unsullied that Tormund had a hard-on for was captured, I'd chain him too… so what would you like to know? My life story? How the poor bastard son of Ned Stark had to be plopped at the wall cause no one could bother to love a motherless boy?"

"He's bitter… not that I blame him," Barristan observed.

Placing her hand on the cold stone, memories of her own childhood coming to the forefront. "An unwanted bastard, a Princess in exile…" _We're not much different, he and I._

"Just start with why you sided with Stannis. Abandoning your Night's Watch vows… I thought those were for life?"

Jon crossed his arms. "Winterfell was occupied by the scum that murdered my brother. My sister was being raped and tortured by a sick bastard… literally a sick bastard. I was the last Stark that could do something about it… Stannis just provided the means."

"I know you, Jon Stark," Tyrion responded. "You're too much like your father. It would take more than personal reasons to betray your oath. Lord Commander Hoare let his line die rather than renounce his vows… what additional reason made you do what Black Harren's brother did not?"

Pursing his lips, Jon nodded. "Aye. Even if my entire family had died… even if my family wasn't threatened at all, I would still support Stannis," Jon confessed, looking around the room - as if knowing that Daenerys was watching him. "He has earned my fealty, for he is the only one who knows of the threat we all face."

There it was. The same words he had said to her during their one on one talk. Daenerys leaned in, head almost touching the walls as she listened intently.

Missandei was equally as intrigued and curious. "What is this threat, Lord Stark?"

Deciding to go for broke, Jon was sick of pretending that the damned chair of swords was actually the fight that mattered. "The White Walkers. The Long Night."

Both the translator and the Queen blinked simultaneously. "The what?"

It was Tyrion that made the first groan. "Oh gods, Jon, not this again." He shook his head. "I vouch for your honor, for your intelligence, and then you spout off these mad legends. Grumpkins and Snarks are not threatening us."

"They are, dwarf," Jon shot back, banging his fist on the table and causing Dany to flinch, not expecting the noise. "They gather north of the Wall, their army of corpses steadily marching south. When they come south, we are all one step away from becoming nothing but meat in his army."

Stilling Tyrion's next biting comment, Missandei met Jon's eyes. "Please, Lord Stark, tell me what these White Walkers are?"

And so he did. Sitting there, face a brooding mask and eyes sunken - staring the thousand yards of a grizzled veteran exposed to horror no other could have ever seen - he told them everything. From the moment he had first faced one in the Lord Commander's chambers to the Battle of Hardhome, of how Stannis saw the threat and committed himself to bringing the Dawn.

At the end, Barristan stepped back, sighing the heavy breath of a man too long upon this world. "Well… of all the things I did expect, that wasn't one of them."

Daenerys crossed her arms. "He seriously expects us to believe this?"

"I'm not sure, your Grace," Barristan stated, old eyes peering at the young Lord as Missandei and Tyrion continued to question him. "Ned Stark was always an honorable man that hated to lie, and Jon Stark is clearly his father's son."

"Then he's delusional then?" Ice monsters? Corpses rising from beyond the grave? The Queen had birthed dragons in the flames from eggs long since ossified but there were places she couldn't suspend disbelief for… could she? As the Lord of Winterfell continued to speak, expression clouding with frustration and determination, Daenerys found a dull sparkle in his grey eyes. An expression she had seen in many a slave - blinking as they couldn't comprehend the fact that they were now free. One of a deep resignation, of giving up on ever being able to escape the horrors they had lived.

But those freedmen had long since been beaten down. Jon Stark… the gaze was wild. Untamed as the vast wilderness of the north. Zealous in his effort to convince her and her advisors of the threat he claimed was lurking north of the Wall. "They are generally weak from rot and decay, but normal steel or wood can't kill them lest you smash them up."

"And tell me what does kill these grumpkins and snarks?" Tyrion asked, tone tinged with sarcasm. Chuckling along with the Dothraki guards that knew the Common Tongue.

Jon was not amused. "They can only be killed with fire. Dragonglass works best, while even a touch of Valyrian Steel anywhere on their bodies would take them down."

Ser Barristan eyed Dany quizzically. "Dragonglass… I remember your brother speaking to me about massive caves of dragonglass that lie in caves underneath Dragonstone."

"Perhaps that could be a bartering item with the North… if they actually believe this story," Dany mused in response.

"Winter is coming…" She turned back to Barristan with a raised eyebrow. "The words of House Stark. I always thought it referred to winter itself, but…" He pursed his lips. "House Stark's founder was the one that built the Wall, Bran the Builder."

The history lesson wasn't misunderstood by Daenerys, eyes shifting back to the form of Jon Stark. The latest in that long and august line of Northern Kings and Lords, preaching the legends of his family as if he had seen them personally. His passion, his… fire… so unlike the image of the frigid northern sociopath that Viserys had long told her of. That Ser Jorah had partially confirmed with his stoic ways even in the thick of the fight. Lord Stark's fury was shocking… and thrilling… Sending a shiver through Dany - not one of fear.

"We do have fire-breathing dragons," Tyrion replied. "If you bend the knee then they could burn these… wights as you call them."

Missandei leaned forward, clasping her hands together earnestly. "Same as with the… White Walkers?"

"No… the White Walkers can only be killed by dragonglass or Valyrian Steel."

The Imp raised a brow. "And why is that, Lord Stark?"

"I didn't make the damned things!" Jon hissed, fire rising to new heights.

Hands reaching out, Missandei eased Jon down. "Alright, Lord Stark. Alright. Calm down. Now, what is the status of the defenses of the Night's Watch…"

"Look!" yelled Jon. Seated and not attempting to move but yelling all the same. "I've been patient with you. I've answered your questions and told you the truth, now get the damn Dragon Queen here or else I'm done speaking!"

Beside her, Khovarro chuckled. _"A horse must have kicked him in the head when a babe, Khaleesi. Addled his mind."_ Dany said nothing, only watching him closer.

"I understand, Lord Stark, but…"

He laughed darkly, humor not reaching his eyes. "Understand? None of you can bother to understand the chaos and death that would happen if the Dead breach the wall!"

A snort from Tyrion. "I've seen the Wall. Pissed from the top of it in fact. That thing has stood for thousands of years. If the grumpkins and snarks even exist then that monstrosity would easily keep them out…"

"Shut up!" The roar from Jon's lips even made Daenerys jump from her spyhole. It was not the snarl of the wolf… it sounded almost like a dragon. "None of you get it, do you? None of you fucking fools truly understand what we're facing."

"Calm down, Jon…"

"You're not listening!" His chains rattled, tightening against their holds. Unsullied tensing behind him. "They have no logistics, no conscience… they don't feel remorse or love or fear! Only bloodlust!" His eyes blazed. "Only an urge to obey the Night King's desire to kill every single living fucking thing!" He erupted out of his chair, chair and table nearly flipping over.

Both Missandei and Tyrion flinched. _"Dovaogēdy!"_

The Unsullied grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving Jon back in the chair - all mindful not to hurt him, though his squirming and screaming didn't help. "You don't know what the fuck you're dealing with! Fighting over the Iron Throne…! She'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't stop the fucking Dead!" Suddenly, Missandei smacked her palm on the table. More noisy than anything, it and the dark look on the translator's face caused his ire to fall. Quiet brooding returning, although the anger remained.

"Are you done, Lord Stark?" Missandei said coldly. Tyrion looked surprised at her sudden steel, as was Dany. _Good for you, Missandei._ "Don't do that again."

Jon's eyes met hers - the fire wasn't a blazing inferno, but the embers still sizzled and glowed. "Forgive me, my Lady, and forgive her Grace if she is watching." His gaze still dark, hollow. A man that had seen horrors that none of those looking him over could even comprehend - even after all they had endured, Daenerys felt a cold suddenly overtake her as that gaze finally found the hollow in which she watched him from. "But His lids fluttered closed, hard. As if trying to suppress a painful memory. "When you've seen an entire Free Folk encampment fall to tens of thousands dead, only for those tens of thousands to rise as if they were only sleeping to stare at you with eyes the color of blue ice… you'd find the most powerful person in Westeros caring more about a single man's rage than the greatest threat to all of humanity, then I can't help you."

"We don't think anything about you, Lord Stark… at least I don't." Missandei looked over to Tyrion, silently chastising him over the grumpkin and snarks comment. "A potential alliance requires trust to go both ways…"

He shook his head. "I'm not talking. I've already said too much, and if none of you believe me then there is no fucking point now, is there?" Silence. "Take me to my cell."

Instructing the Unsullied to comply with Jon's request, Missandei and Tyrion filed out of the room to find Dany and Barristan - the Hand of the King folded his arms while the Queen simply hung her head on the wall. Eyes closed, mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts. "So what do you two think?" Barristan asked. "I saw the whole thing, but you saw him up close." Part of Ser Barristan thought he knew more about Jon Stark than any of them, but he dismissed it. _Simply impossible._

Tyrion sighed. "Well, if I didn't know him from before… I'd say he was as mad as the Mad King… or my sister… or Stannis." It was almost ironic, and completely tragic. _All our rulers for decades have either been madmen or drunks._ But not Daenerys… not on his watch. "But Jon Stark, even as a bastard, always had a level head. More like Eddard Stark than Eddard's Stark's trueborn children. I'm inclined to think this story is absolute nonsense… but… I don't know…"

That didn't help. "Lady Missandei?"

"This is not something I'd ever thought I'd have to deal with." Dealing with the masters was a preparation for dealing with recalcitrant Westerosi noblemen, not ice monsters. "His story is fantastical, but he is sincere. I don't think he was lying about any of it."

"So what you're saying is that you believe that he believes that there's an army of dead men being led by frozen demons north of the Wall?" the Queen suddenly said, not turning her head to face them. "And that this is also what Stannis believes?"

"It makes sense as to why Stannis has fallen into the Red Witch's influence, burning Lady Olenna and all the others…" The pieces were suddenly fitting in for Tyrion. "The followers of R'hllor believe that there is a promised…"

Daenerys turned, cutting him off. "Yes, I know. Priestess Kinvara said that I am that Promised Prince… or Princess, whatever."

"And the Red Woman says that it is Stannis. Brienne of Tarth told me as much when we talked of Renly's demise while she was in King's Landing - it makes him extra dangerous, your Grace. He's not Robert fighting for the throne, he's a religious fanatic fighting for godhead." A point she had not considered, but now would have to adapt all her plans. "Lord Stark asked me to set up a parlay with Stannis… that will be a useless endeavor."

"Still, it would be in your best interests to at least attempt it." Barristan steered the conversation back to Jon… and the North. "With Stannis it will hurt our efforts to try and make peace with him, but I think we can make more likely peace with the North with this new information. Inform them of the Dragonglass deposits in the island caves. If they supply the miners, it shouldn't be hard to let them ship it to White Harbor. Costs us nothing. When their raven comes I'll include the offer… if your Grace agrees?"

Looking back at the interrogation chamber for the briefest moment, Daenerys nodded. "Send the offer, but don't make it official just yet. I wish to speak to whomever they send before I grant the North any more favors." She walked to the door.

"Your Grace…" Missandei called after her, but she was already gone. "Gods… what a mess."

"Still seems a bit far-fetched, doesn't it?" Tyrion mused.

"We serve a woman who walked into a fire and emerged with three dragons." Barristan the Bold didn't hold back, still thinking about Jon. How he looked, how he brooded… his very attitude and personality. So damn familiar. "If that is possible, who knows what else is?" The dwarf didn't have a response for that.

* * *

Ignoring any effort from her council to speak to her - to discuss the various revelations, or insanities, handed them by their captive - Daenerys pushed her way out of the castle. Scrambling the myriad of black stone steps towards the grassy plain that provided the dash of color to the otherwise drab and imposing volcanic island. Galloping past on a patrol, several Dothraki screamers noticed their silver-haired Khaleesi alone and fell into a respectful yet close step behind her. Arakhs at the ready just in case of a threat. In the back of her mind, Daenerys appreciated their loyalty and diligence, but at the moment she simply wanted to be alone.

Well… partly alone.

Drogon and Rhaegal were perched on the cliffside that they had made their lair almost the day the Targaryen forces secured Dragonstone from the few guards Stannis Baratheon had left. Elongated necks stretched out on the grass, gentle breathing going in and out while they slept. Various carcasses of sea creatures were strewn about - the largest of ones they preferred feeding on left on the sandy beaches below them. For once, Daenerys observed with not a little amusement, they actually were keen on cleaning up after themselves.

Was it only yesterday that they were but hatchlings, all able to climb atop her while nuzzling her skin? Now, Drogon was as wide as the central keep of Dragonstone castle itself, his brothers not far behind. _Oh my darlings…_

Sensing their mother's presence, Drogon yawned wide while Rhaegal merely snorted, curling his head around to get more sleep. "Rhaegal, my sweet," Dany remarked, calling out to him as one would a puppy. "Don't you want to greet _muna?_ " Normally the dragons would try to crowd each other out to receive affection from the diminutive Targaryen Queen. But the emerald dragon merely raised his head in the direction of the Keep. Amber eyes blinking, head cocking as if he was looking… searching for something… only for him to hoot once and return to his curled up slumber.

Dany reached her hand out to touch Drogon's offered snout, stroking the scales as she thought about Rhaegal. How this behavior was quite common of him since she returned from the mainland. In any case, he was eating plenty and flying, so she wouldn't worry. "Where's your other brother?" The question answered itself when Viserion passed overhead. The cream dragon roaring as it shot across the length of the island before banking out to sea." Daenerys laughed merrily. "Shall we join him?" Drogon's eyes twinkled, dragon bobbing his head before lowering his wings. Begging for her to mount him.

Soaring through the sky, winds whipping through her hair, Daenerys felt exactly at home for the only time in her life upon the earth. Hands gripping onto the heated spines and scales of her majestic mount, she gazed at the green speck of Dragonstone, of the glistening blue waters of Blackwater Bay and the distant white cliffs and sandy beaches of her homeland and birthright. Up here she knew who she was. Knew where she belonged without a worry in the world. Dropping her queenly mask and whooping into the void. A carefree life, soaring among the clouds… yet also a lonely one. _The Last Targaryen._

Such a chink in her armor brought forth all of her problems. A mental command leveling out Drogon so she could hug his scales. Let the serenity of the midpoint between man and gods clear her mind.

_"She'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't stop the fucking Dead…"_

Words of a madman… words of a mummer at best, so fantastical and insane that no one in their right mind would conjure such a thing. _Men rising from the dead, controlled by ice monsters?_ Daenerys had no time for such nonsense. Much of her hoped that the North would just bend the knee so that she could wash her hands of Jon Stark. Never even have to think of him again.

But this was no madman… Jon Stark had avenged his family, destroyed two great houses at the helm of Stannis Baratheon's army, nearly crushed her horde and her dragon, and withstood all the pain and humiliation heaped on him since he arrived at Dragonstone. And he was still here, stubborn and unyielding. A strong man, a man of conviction and inner certainty. Why would he make up such a fantastical story? To fool her? To seek a better negotiating position…

_Because it's true?_

The shudder coursing through Dany had nothing to do with the freezing cold winds blowing across Drogon's back. _He can't be right. He just can't be._

_But what if he is?_

If true, then she was faced with a person so alien to her. A man that fought not for power or gold or the pleasures of the flesh. But for family, honor… survival for more than just himself. Closing her eyes, the panic and sheer terror in Jon Stark's voice still ringing in her ears, Dany saw much of herself. The same selflessness and drive. One that drove her to continue with the stubborn northerner in spite of the most glaring futility that one could imagine.

_"He is the ally you need… but the enemy you have."_

Even soaring high above the clouds atop Drogon's back, not a care in the world that could have bothered a dragon, Daenerys Targaryen couldn't escape that somehow, some way, her fate had come inexorably linked with the enigmatic Lord of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Lots went on in this one, and I'm sure there will be a discussion in the comments as always. Bran is here. We're not the biggest fans of him but he is an integral character so to speak. We'd been talking about his arrival for some time now. This felt like a good place for it. Though not quite the homecoming anybody expected or wanted, that's for sure. You'll notice our portrayal of Bran to most likely be true to that of the show. That's the only thing concerning Bran that will be the same. No goddamn Bran the Broken here, folks. That aside, it is the Three-Eyed Raven to be 100% honest. Bran is gone. Even though we will refer to him as Bran.
> 
> Longclaw: The Jaime battle scene is somewhat based off Carrhae and Hattin, though with a different result. The Crownlands are in a stalemate, but the fight continues.
> 
> The issue with the White Walkers would be treated with skepticism, but Jon has enough of a reputation that he wouldn't be dismissed out of hand.
> 
> Rhaegal must know, and Barristan has an idea ;)
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	24. Something Terrible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter has been reposted upon further reflection, sorry for the trouble
> 
> Longclaw: Hey all. Sorry for the wait, but Bruh and I have been on a marathon brainstorming session for the rest of the story. Putting the pieces together quite well in my opinion.
> 
> Seriously, we're all very excited for what's coming up! An intense ride of action, character study, and a building love :D
> 
> BRuh4: Hey y'all, we back. Hasn't been too long I think. We got some really cool stuff in store.
> 
> We talked about some stuff this week that we really damn excited about. Can't wait to share it you when it's ready.
> 
> Enjoy.

"Feed us, your Grace!"

The smell of smoke had cleared from King's Landing, thank the Seven. Such was the only improvement that Jaime could note as arriving during the reign of Cersei of House Lannister. From atop his war stallion, only the two banner-bearers of the lion standard ahead of him as he led the five hundred strong Westerman towards the Red Keep, the capitol has only grown colder, shabbier, and dirtier since the last time. Robert has cared little for ruling and Joffrey's wars neglected the population to point of starving, but this was something else entirely.

Sullen lines of people gathered outside of impromptu markets, being doled out meager sacks of grain, oats, mead, or oil by the City Watch. Weapons bristling from the goldcloaks to ward off funny business. Rationing has its victims in the form of wastrels strewn in the streets and scrawny street urchins scavenging through piles of trash. The goldcloaks didn't even bother to kick them in the ass anymore, though such was a small comfort to Jaime - he doubted it was altruism.

"Gods…" he breathed at seeing a group of boys chasing after rats that were once feeding on an emancipated corpse. "This city is dying."

Riding beside him, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater snorted. The rest of the high command was back at Stokeworth in the current stalemate with Daenerys Targaryen, but the hero of Blackwater Bay was here in earnest. Wanting to make sure that he got assurances of his castle when the war ended. At least that's what he told Jaime. "Wasn't like it was exactly thriving before, but seven fucking hells." Apparently even he had reservations and qualms. "Only thing in abundance are goldcloaks and your sister's propaganda."

Jaime had to admit that true. Apparently cheap paint and cloth were the only plentiful items in King's Landing. Every block or so found massive banners of the golden lion of House Lannister atop a field of fire and black lines representing charred corpses. Whether referencing to Stannis or Daenerys the Lion of Lannister didn't know, perhaps both.  **'She stands between you and this',**  the caption read in large block script. "Qyburn's smart. It's effective." Rumors of heathen gods and fires had kept the populace in line during the War of the Five Kings.

Bronn clicked his tongue. "That one's my favorite." He pointed to a giant banner stretched horizontally across two ruined but still standing spires of the Great Sept. Painted atop the white canvas was a rather flattering likeness of Cersei, smiling and happy. Surrounding her outstretched arms were a group of happy children of all ages.  **'Queen Cersei loves children,'**  the script read.

"Artists must have been imported. No one that good lives in Westeros." Good relations with the Iron Bank likely kept trade with Braavos a going concern.

But that wasn't the only art in King's Landing. "Apparently, the tough shits still have fight in 'em," mused Bronn, pointing to the constant scribbling of graffiti on the walls of all the buildings. Fresh, based on how dark and vibrant it was. Jaime had to squint to parse the badly written scrawl.  **'Pay your debt Cersei Lannister'**  read one, though 'Lannister' was spelled wrong.

 **'Where's our food,'**  was far more direct.

The large image of the Queen with the smiling children had its meaning changed with a crudely-drawn engorged male appendage adorning Cersei's hips. That was the most direct of them all, as was a rudimentary pornographic pictograph of Jaime and Cersei copulating.  **'Brotherfucker Queen.'**  Both words spelled wrong. "It captures your likeness, Lannister," Bronn mused with a smirk. Jamie resisted the urge to throttle him.

Some were war related, bordering on treason.  **'Stannis is our KING!'**  Whoever wrote it capitalized 'King' for emphasis.

 **'MOTHER OF DRAGONS, BREAKER OF CHAINS.'**  Seemed Stannis wasn't the only one with supporters in the capitol. A cluster of goldcloaks supervised a group of scrawny smallfolk washing over the last scrawl with chalked lime. "Good thing she stays in the keep." The crowds would tear her apart if she stepped out.

"Aye, she'd look less pretty with a cow pie in her face than Joffrey."

 _He better hope this procession ends soon before I kill him._  Luckily for Bronn, they were only minutes away from arriving at the gates.

The Red Keep was like a different world altogether. The grounds were clean. Gardens lush with plant life, trimmed and watered daily with overripe oranges, lemons, and grapes dangling from their stems. Fine silks and laces clothed the members of court, while the servants were shabby and sullen but far better fed and dressed than those living outside.  _Only the best for my sister… was that way when we were children and is that way now._  Dismounting his horse, Jaime saw the portly form of Ser Boros Blount - just embarrassing for a proper knight to end up that way, especially when the city was starving around them - approaching him. "Lord Jaime, her Grace has been expecting you."

"I gather that, but why my men? They're better served fighting the Dragon Queen's armies."

"Much as I would like them driving that bitch into the sea, you'll have to ask her Grace for such answers. You and Ser Bronn," Boros regarded the former sellsword with a haughty contempt. "Are to come with me to the royal apartments."

Maegor's Holdfast had undergone yet another transformation. All remnants of Houses Targaryen or Baratheon had been tossed out, leaving a veritable flurry of reds and golds adoring the walls. Furniture of Westerlands style, it was as if Jaime had entered a satellite branch of Casterly Rock.  _As if I didn't manage to escape the first one._  It held no memories of significance since his mother passed away… hells, King's Landing barely did, but the days serving Prince Rhaegar and Queen Rhaella, along with the stolen moments with Tommen and Myrcella were more than his father's pride and joy ever gave him.

Approaching Cersei's solar, Jaime could hear her screams of anger through the walls and doors. "...some starving peasant cunt deface me in such a manner?!"

"Looks like she knows about the little surprise on her banner," Bronn whispered in Jaime's ear. "Poor cunt has guts."

"Or a death wish…" was Jaime's reply.

"Do not worry, your Grace," Qyburn replied. "I have my birds combing the entire city. I'll find the perpetrator, do not worry."

"Burn him! Burn his entire family!" Jaime winced as if scalded, that tone quite familiar to him. The screeching grew even worse as Ser Boros opened the door. "Burn all of them who stand in the way of my reign…!" Wild green eyes immediately softened upon seeing her brother, a flash of the sweet, loving girl he had fell in love with emerging from the bitter shell. "Jaime!" No longer caring about hiding and propriety - she was the  _true_  Queen of Westeros after all - Cersei practically flew into his arms. Kissing him deeply. "I missed you, my lion."

Even with all of his thoughts and reservations, Jaime couldn't help but melt into the kiss. "And I you, my Queen." After several seconds, he broke the kiss. "I bring you news of the defeat of the Dothraki at Old Stone Bridge. Rosby and Stokeworth are still in our hands."

Cersei seemed to puff up at the news. "You see, my Lord Hand, the situation isn't as dire as you are making it seem." Qyburn only nodded, while Ser Boros took his leave. The hulking form of the Mountain was plenty protection for her Grace. "The Dragon Bitch is licking her wounds, Euron Greyjoy has decapitated the Dornish leadership including the cunts that killed our beloved Myrcella." Even with his conscience, Jaime couldn't feel anything but satisfaction at the death of Ellaria Sand. "And Stannis and the Bitch have crippled each other while we merely watch!" The manic glint returned to her green eyes. "Picture it, Jaime! Olenna Tyrell burned alive! The Stark bastard in chains! They are falling apart before our very eyes!"

Smiling for effect, Jaime reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. "While that is welcome, we still have a war to fight."

Happiness souring into a scowl, Cersei waved him off. "Yes, yes I know." She walked to the window, gazing out at her domain. Starving and stinking of shit and death, but still hers. "He burns Olenna alive but the Reach has still bent the knee to Stannis."

Qyburn stepped forward, repository of information from across the realm. "It seems that Randyll Tarly switched sides prior to the Battle of Highgarden, and his championing of Stannis' claim as his Warden of the South won over many of the Reach Lords… who do they hate most, House Lannister, House Baratheon, or a Dothraki/Ghiscari/Dornish horde? Lesser of evils, I believe."

"Cunts," Cersei hissed venomously. "But I have a plan for Stannis. Ser Bronn, is it?"

Looking around, hoping to have melted into the walls and ignored, Bronn knew he had to say something. "Yes, your Grace?"

"My brother promised you a castle for your trouble… and a Highborn wife?" The former sellsword nodded. "Take the best cutthroats and riders you can find and go to the Stormlands and Reach. Slash and burn, reave and rape. Make Stannis expend his men and energy trying to find you as my father had with the Brotherhood Without Banners. Do it well, and you'll get your pick of Highgarden or Storm's End."

Blinking, Bronn hid his surprise. He'd been expecting something decent such as Duskendale or the Twins… The premier seats of the Reach and Stormlands, both very wealthy kingdoms, he couldn't believe his luck. "I will make you proud, your Grace." With that he turned and left. There was a thirty-seventy chance that it would actually pan out, but for Highgarden or Storm's End he would take it.

Once a minute passed, Cersei chuckled. "Good, with him gone we can talk the linchpin of my plan. Stannis won't ever attack us."

Pursing his lips, Jaime crossed his arms. "And how is that? He attacked King's Landing once and will do it again."

"Because we're going to bog him in Dorne." Cersei began to laugh. "With any luck he'll disappear into the deserts like Harlan Tyrell." She giggled with glee at the thought.

"The Dornish houses are weak, many led by children after Euron killed their fathers and mothers at Sunspear," Qyburn informed them. "Arianne Martell can't hold them together, so any assault into the Principality will cause them to collapse."

"Why would he attack Dorne?"

Walking towards Jaime, the Lion of Lannister fought from flinching. There was the look. Aerys' look. "We're going to assassinate Lord Leyton Hightower and frame the Martells." Kissing his lips hungrily, it seemed as if the thought alone drove her to pure arousal. "They're going to want to burn Dorne to the ground once it happens."

Jaime didn't know what was worse, Cersei becoming Aerys or their father…  _or both._

* * *

The arrival of Brandon Stark likely should've spawned an air of happiness throughout Winterfell. Seemingly instead a fog of confusion and mystery filled the keep. Certainly, many of the guardsmen throughout the castle were somewhat new. Some had seen Bran Stark when he could walk, fewer after the fall. Jon and Sansa had learned that Bran may still be alive after Theon confessed to not burning him and Rickon during the Ironborn occupation. But the odds of a crippled boy ever appearing again seemed so unlikely.

Even when he did appear, the momentary joy dissipated quickly because the boy who did return wasn't the Bran anyone remembered. The bright boy who loved to climb. Rickon expected to see his big brother that he loved so much, even though they couldn't run and play together anymore. He expected to be met with a smile and a hug. He got the latter without the warmth of the smile rendered the embrace joyless. When it should've been a magical moment filled with glee.

The boy sitting before them wasn't the Brandon Stark they remembered. Instead, a shell of his former self strolled through the gates. The original Bran seemed to be long gone. A different spirit rested inside him, adding to the Ghosts already residing in the crypts.

At night, while the keep was quiet, Arya and Sansa strolled through the winding corridors. Somewhat dark, only light being the torches on the wall. Almost silent, except for their footfalls against the stone. "He didn't seem right, Bran I mean."

Sansa agreed, "He was… cold. His skin was fridged to the touch. He didn't even feel alive."

"Something must have happened to him."

"Something terrible."

Arya kept her eyes forward, "He's not the Bran I remember."

"Just like us, the time he spent away from home changed him. Though it appears as if he had a more drastic change."

"We need to find out what happened."

"Why? What would that help? I don't think something like this can be fixed."

"We owe it to ourselves to try to help him. If we can." Arya said, making it sound like it isn't any other option. Truly, she had no clue if Bran could be helped. After the two sister walked for a while without talking. Until Arya broke the silence, "I'm going to King's Landing."

Sansa stopped dead in her tracks, "What?" Arya stopped as well but she didn't turn around.

"I'm going to kill Cersei before Stannis does. I have to."

"Why?"

"She's on my list."

"Your list?"

"List of people I'm going to kill."

Sansa shook her head, catching up to her sister. "What are you talking about?"

"It's hard to explain," Arya sighed. "It's just something I have to do."

"You have a list of people your going to kill?"

"Most of them are dead already." Arya kept walking without allowing Sansa to respond. The older sister followed close behind many questions flooding through her brain. Though she wouldn't have a chance to ask now. The two sisters came to a crossroads within the keep. Sansa glanced to the way to the right, torches along the walls. "I'll think I'll go check on Rickon."

"That's a good idea," Arya agreed. "We can talk more later."

"Yes," Sansa replied, grimacing a bit. "We must." Arya went left without responding. The older s hi ister stared at the younger as she walked. Watching until the darkness shrouded Arya, not allowing a further view. Never had Sansa felt further from her only sister, even when they were thousands of miles from each other.

Eventually, Sansa strolled off. It didn't take long for her to get to Rickon's room. She stood before it for a while before knocking. When Rickon's voice allowed her entry, she pushed her way in slowly. Her eyes found the smallest Stark sitting on the side of his feather bed. The wooden floorboards creaked underfoot as she approached.

"Hi, Sansa," Rickon said.

Taking a seat next to him, Sansa said, "Are you okay? You looked pale earlier."

"I… I'm fine."

"Something's bothering you, I can tell. You can't hide it from me," Sansa said, smiling a bit. Perhaps some innate motherly instincts kicking in. Though she had difficulty imagining herself as a mother given all that's happened to her.

Seemingly unable to hold it in any longer, Rickon sputtered words out. "It was Bran! He scared me."

"Scared you how?"

"What he said."

"What did he say to you?"

"I.. I just wanted to know where Hodor was." The young boy began, "That's it."

Sansa knew little of Hodor, save his existence. He often made rounds of the courtyard when she was young but her mother wouldn't let her anywhere near him. As a result, she looked down on the simpleton. Even when she returned to Winterfell, him not being there didn't even cross her mind. Probably better for Hodor overall, being in Winterfell while Ramsay was alive probably wouldn't have gone well for him. Despite that, she decided it was best to act like she knew him well. "What did Bran say?"

"Bran… Bran said he died," Rickon sniffled, holding on tighter to his sister. "Hodor died. The worst part was the way he said it. It sounded like he didn't even care."

"That's what got you so upset?"

"Yeah, I don't know what happened to Bran. But I want him to stop it."

"He did look… different. And the way he talked bothered me. Nothing like the Bran I remember," Sansa added, thinking back how cold his cheek felt. Even then, she could feel it.

"What happened to him?" Rickon huffed.

"I don't know, but I intend to find out."

* * *

"I trust you'll like the accommodations, Lord Stark."

A shrug from the prisoner. "A cell, a room… when you have to sleep in the gut of a dead mammoth to protect from the icy blizzards north of the wall, you learn not to care as long as you get to sleep," he grunted.

Missandei didn't know how to answer that - it was gruff and rude, but she couldn't find fault with that assessment. "I suppose so." Hearing the clinking of chains as they dragged along the stone floor, Missandei knew this was long delayed. Efforts to use the harsh cells of Dragonstone to break Jon Stark had been in vain. Anyone that truly knew him could tell, and as his unilateral caregiver, the Naathi translator made the decision to transfer him to a guest chambers as befitting his standing. "But you'll be more comfortable here."

"I'll be more comfortable back home, in Winterfell."

"That won't happen, so I'd suggest you enjoy what you can, especially being out of the cell."

Jon eyed the Unsullied guards leading him. "I assume they'll be at my door." There was no answer. "Then it's still a cell. Soft sheets, washbasin… doesn't matter if I'm not free to go and come if I please."

Trying not to shoot an annoyed retort back at Lord Stark, Missandei gestured to one of the Unsullied to open the door to the designated room. It was spartan in accommodations, but did include a bed with furs and sheets, a washbasin, a chest filled with plain but clean clothing, and even a looking glass. "All yours." Her voice was more… guarded than before.

Pursing his lips, Jon entered as soon as the shackles were removed. Under the watchful eye of Lady Missandei and his guards the entire time, inspecting the accommodations. Sitting upon the bed - it was firm, not the best quality even by northern standards. "Better than my bed at the Night's Watch, that's for sure."

"You are a Lord Paramount. Even as a hostage, you deserve to be treated well."

"My bruises are still healing and my ribs are still rather sore from where the Queen's dog attacked me, Lady Missandei."

"That was an unfortunate lapse to which the Queen has already made amends. Better too late than never, I would think."

He nodded. "Better too late than never, yes." Scooting to the edge of the bed, he patted the far end. Bidding Missandei to sit, which she did. "I know what you are trying to do, my Lady. The kindness, the comfort, you are trying to bait me to betray Stannis."

"Lord Stark…"

"No, let me speak." His voice was firm, but not loud. He had no quarrel with the freed slave, someone who he could tell was genuine and kind. "Your Queen… she refuses to see the true threat in the North. The actual threat that faces us all."

"You do have to admit that your story is fantastical, Lord Stark. Her Grace would be a fool to make it the central focus of her campaign without proof."

Crossing his arms, Jon's instincts told him to clam up, to not say anything... somehow this woman reminded him of many he had known. Cowed, broken souls that rose to the occasion. Simply by being here meant she had an importance beyond her birth, and there was honestly no reason she had given to make her out to be a monster as many of his foes. He would trust her with innocuous information, for now. "She refuses to consider it, while others in her position have."

Missandei narrowed her eyes. "Don't think Stannis is altruistic." She had prepared herself, studying everything about the wars and political situation Westeros had been mired in for decades - not about to become some useless paperweight for her Queen. "He fights for the same chair."

Jon shook his head. "His Grace knows the true threat."

"And yet he's down here instead of up there."

"He's seen it and is committed to defeating it, which requires unity."

Part of him said that the Dragon Queen was similar... only part.

"You gave him a chance. Why don't you give her Grace the same chance?"

"I can understand her attacking my men. I can understand her desire to win a battle…" His hand trembled, forcing him to pinch the bridge of his nose to still it. "I see them, every night. My bannermen, my allies, my friends… I see them burn in my nightmares." It wasn't just them. He saw Robb get his throat cut, Sansa getting raped, Ygritte dying in his arms over and over again. But those weren't because of the Dragon Queen. A grim chuckle passed Jon's lips. "Better to die on your feet than on your knees…" Wildling words to live by. Jon took a deep breath… "She caused it… her dragon, her orders."

There was nothing Missandei could say to calm his words, not much, anyways. "War always brings hardship, death. But better that than a peace with the same death and torture..."

"Did the Blackfish deserve to be burned?!" Seeing the Unsullied tense, Jon drew back. He wasn't Ramsay, or Karl Tanner - an unarmed woman would not receive his wrath.

Long beaten and violated into submission, Missandei wasn't about to be submissive anymore. "Did Olenna Tyrell deserve to be burned? Did the King Beyond the Wall, whom you gave mercy to, if I recall? Your King burned him for the same reason, and without dragonfire it's a slow, painful death."

The Lord of Winterfell said nothing for the longest while. His eyes boring a hole into the stone floor. "Queen Daenerys… every time I've seen her…" Jon's lips were curled in a sneer. "She's either been a monster or some manipulator. Why in seven hells is she different from Cersei, Tywin, Joffrey, or Roose Bolton? Other manipulators and monsters that only desired power?" He opened his arms. "I have yet to see it."

Letting the silence take hold for what had to be a minute, Missandei slowly met Jon's eyes. "What tales have you heard of her? Her campaigns in Essos, I mean?"

Blinking, Jon wasn't sure where his supposed caregiver was going with this. Nevertheless, she seemed to be the only person in the damn keep that gave a damn about his welfare.  _I'll indulge her story._  "What's there to tell? Secured an Unsullied army and then pillaged and burned her way to conquer Meereen by fomenting slave uprisings."

Suddenly, Missandei began to chuckle. "Oh, you know nothing, Jon Stark."

His ire was piqued. "You're the second person to say that to me…" He clenched his hand, not willing to think of Ygritte. Of showing weakness in front of Missandei. "I figure I don't know much. But Daenerys has turned out to be exactly what I imagined her to be." Maester Aemon had talked about her considerably, but given what information he had heard from Stannis… Jon was not inclined to rethink his position on the daughter of the most vilified man in Westeros.

"I don't blame you for not knowing the truth of what happened. The Targaryens aren't beloved, and your rulers have every interest in continuing that hate." Anything to justify what Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon did, butchering Daenerys' family and hunting down every last Targaryen. "I was there, Jon Stark. I saw the truth."

Jon knitted his brows in confusion. "Well… it's not like I have anything better to do at this point. Enlighten me."

Setting her hands in her lap, Missandei thought of where to begin. Of what to tell him of her Queen to get through his stubborn skull. After a minute of soul searching, she had settled on a particular story. "Queen Daenerys arrived in Astapor seeking to purchase the Unsullied. Which she did by tricking the 'Good Master' that had previously owned them… and me."

Jon gave away nothing, but the very concept of slavery didn't sit well with him.

Clearing her throat, she went on. "The 'Wise Masters' of Yunkai offered gold and access to a fleet of ships for her to return to Westeros, she refused." There was a tiny flicker of surprise in Jon's eye - a subtle tell, but one Missandei recognized. "She stayed, taking the city so that she could free all the slaves held within. Hundreds of thousands of them."

This was always where the tales and rumors Jon heard had diverged. Some said she had stormed the city, others had her besieging it for months until starvation forced the defenders to yield. Based on Stannis' speeches to his command, the official line of the Baratheon King was that the dragons burned their way into Yunkai. Aemon claimed that it was done practically without bloodshed, but after enduring dragonfire at the Battle of Duskendale, Jon was inclined to believe Stannis. "And Meereen?"

"What have you heard about Meereen, Lord Stark?" On this, Missandei was genuinely curious. Who knows what they fed him about the evil Dragon Queen?

"Not much," Jon admitted. "There was a tale of how she crucified fifty men. A gesture of her conquest of the city." He snorted. "Did they refuse to bend the knee as Brynden Tully did?"

A sigh. The freed slave wasn't surprised that people like Cersei Lannister or Stannis Baratheon would try to gin up sympathy for the masters in order to tear down Daenerys. "Crucifixion… it's what they use to execute slaves, Lord Stark. A form of torture in death, and as a message to other slaves that there is a price for disobedience. As such, it is often in public." Jon did not respond. "In Astapor, before she bought the Unsullied, there was a line of slaves that had been condemned. Daenerys… she gave them water."

"Did you see this happen?" he ended up asking dismissively.

"Ser Barristan Selmy did. He was with her at Astapor. He and I both saw the slaves along the road."  _Ser Barristan… one of the greatest knights of the Kingsguard._  Someone he had idolized from a young age alongside Aemon the Dragonknight or Daeron the Young Dragon. Jon refused to comment. "But what she faced from the 'Great Masters' of Meereen was far different. Far worse." Missandei closed her eyes, the images still haunting her. "One hundred and sixty three children, children…"

 _"My brother's son, his son, and the children… even the children…"_  From the pain in Missandei's voice, Jon remembered Maester Aemon's long ago words. Grieving his family…  _Daenerys Targaryen's family…_  She suffered a loss too, now that he thought about it, head aching.

Taking Jon's silence as an invitation to continue, Missandei did just that. "One dead, crucified child for every single mile between the beginning of the mountain coast road and the gates of Meereen. Each of them left to die from thirst and exposure, none allowed the one form of mercy in broken legs or arms. A small mercy, but gargantuan in the face of days of abject suffering." Trying best to hold herself together, the weight of all the degradation and pain of her bondage beginning to overwhelm her, Missandei breathed deeply. "Barristan wanted to have them removed. But she wouldn't let him. She had to look them all in the eye. Every person that was placed up there."

"Why?"

"She wanted to remember them."

Jon said nothing. What could he say?

"She had each of them buried with all honors, and the crucified masters were in response to that. Even now… I can see her hidden tears at those children lost because a group of sadistic monsters wanted to prove a point."

There was the longest silence, neither speaking. "I don't believe you," Jon finally said.

"Yes, you do." It was as if the former slave could see right through him. "In your heart, you know it's true. That those you most trusted have lied to you about the nature of your enemy." Letting the truth settle for several moments, Missandei stood. "You think yourself the only one who knows loss, Jon Stark. To know that you are a survivor of a family hunted. To bear the weight of countless innocents - you saved the Free Folk from this threat behind the wall, but Daenerys freed millions of human beings from the chains of bondage..."

"What do you want from me?" Eyelids tightly closed, Jon was barely holding it together. "I've told you the threat, the reason that I fight. I've told you that I cannot betray my oath. What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?"

 _He didn't mention Daenerys - didn't mention how she was a Mad Queen that attacked his men._  "I don't want anything from you, Jon Stark." No threats, no demands. None of those would work. "Just for you to come face to face with a simple fact."

Eyes fluttering open, Jon looked directly at Missandei. She had made her way to the door, standing in the entrance. "What fact?"

For someone seemingly so meek, her dark eyes were hardened with an inner steel. "Ask yourself this question. Would a monster feel grief for the innocent?" Missandei turned to leave. "In that, you'll find the truth you seek." The door closed before she received an answer.

 _Do not blame children for the crimes of their parents._  Such was why Jon forgave Alys Karstark for her father and brother betraying House Stark. Or Walda and Roslin Frey for what their father did.  _And yet you didn't for Queen Daenerys…_

 _That's different._  His mind was at war with itself.  _She is evil…_

 _Do you really think that? Or does your anger truly come from blaming her for what her father and brother did._  Jon knew not how to answer that question - knew not where to separate Daenerys' actions from the Mad King's.

_Would a Mad Queen look at the faces of murdered, innocent children?_

For once, he had an answer -  _no_.

* * *

The plenty of the Reach was wasted on Stannis. Sumptuous feasts, free-flowing wine, and the fairest of maidens might have enticed his older brother - while only an inverting of the sex of the latter would serve the same for his younger brother - but the same celibacy, sour wine, and spartan dinner of bread, cheese, apples, and simple beef stew would suffice for him. He asked for nothing, desired no worldly comforts. Only power chinked the thick armor that cloaked him, the seeking of his birthright and destiny that arose Stannis' lust.

And now, staring at the newly shaded map that was draped over his table, that same lust drove the One True King of Westeros to melancholy once faced with the obstacles. And such obstacles were many. "Is it true?"

Davos pressed his lips together tightly. "Aye, it's true. We received a raven from Riverrun today, Raventree Hall yesterday." He pulled the two folded scrolls out of his belt and handed them to Stannis. "Both the Tullys and the Blackwoods are abiding by the same surrender terms to Daenerys Targaryen as the North and Wildlings, sitting the war out."

"Traitors," Stannis mumbled, though in all honesty he couldn't be bothered to raise too much of a hackle. Everything was just… numb. Even after his legendary victory at Highgarden. "We must send a force to destroy them, send a message."

A throaty cough directed attention to Lord Yohn Royce, the unofficial commander of the Vale forces. "I… I wouldn't do that, your Grace."

Piercing blue eyes found the Lord of Runestone. Dark and unsettling, fire dancing within. "Why is that, Lord Royce?"

Royce gulped. He was a renowned knight and fighter, but age had turned his brown hair to grey and his handsome face to wrinkles and chin wattles. "They haven't taken up arms against you and their loyalty is still secured… they simply do not have the strength to fight after Duskendale, most likely. They aren't worth the distraction of your attention - not with the Mad Lion and Dragon Queen facing against you."

"He makes an excellent point, your Grace." The floor went to Littlefinger, alone among the men in the war room to eschew combat wear, instead clothed in a fine silk doublet. "Besides, the Blackwoods follow the Old Gods and Edmure Tully is Lady Sansa's uncle. We cannot afford to antagonize the North if we target either of them."

 _Antagonize the North, and we doom our cause in the Long Night._  A figure in the snow, flaming sword in hand. Stannis would not deny himself his destiny. "Fine." He turned to Davos. "What news of Jon Stark?"

Their forces could have won a hundred decisive victories and conquered a dozen cities, but the capture of Jon Stark would have driven Davos to pain even still. The boy was like a surrogate son for him, and it showed from the flicker of pain that crossed his face. "We received a raven from Ser Barristan, Hand to Daenerys Targaryen. It said that Lord Stark is being held on Dragonstone and that he's alive, on his honor."

"So the old bastard finally showed his true loyalties." Stannis snickered, though his grimace was far from humorous. "My cunt of a goodsister and her bastard son were fools for cutting him loose, but he should have come to serve his true King." Said true King looked at another of his commanders. "How is your loyalty, Selmy?"

Lord Arstan Selmy bowed. "I am loyal to you, your Grace."

"And if it comes to it, can you be trusted to fight Ser Barristan if need be - like the Cargyll Twins?"

Everyone knew the story of the twin Kingsguards, each having chosen a different side in the Dance of Dragons. They were tasked to fight each other, and chose duty over family in their duel to the death. "I will choose you, my King."

"Good." Stannis turned back to Davos. "Can we get him back?"

"I'm sure I could get a ransom price from Daenerys Targaryen… though she'll probably require immense concessions." One could only imagine what she'd demand - unlike the rest of Stannis' war council, Davos didn't believe that she'd summarily burn them to death with dragonfire. No one that freed slaves in Slaver's Bay would be a madwoman, enemy or no. Always good to be realistic.

Littlefinger smirked, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. "By concessions, the good Hand means that she'll offer you Storm's End in exchange for bending the knee…"

All fell silent when the King slammed his fist against the table. "The only knees that will bend are those that pledge their fealty to me!" His hand automatically went to his own leg, rubbing it gently. Hoping the ache there didn't mean the wound would open again. "Our forces are strong, well rested. The Stormlands are prepared to go to war once more. All we need is Jon back - and you, Davos, will get him for me."

The Hand blinked. "Your Grace?"

"In a moon's time I will send notice to Dragonstone that I am sending you there to negotiate Lord Stark's release… but you are to leave now for Braavos."

"Braavos, your Grace?"

"That sellsail you hired before, the man that can sail the Narrow Sea in little over a week?"

"Salladhor Saan?"

Stannis nodded. "Get him to get you to Braavos. There, you will pay off our loan with the Tyrell gold. Obtain another loan and hire the Golden Company. That will more than prepare us to storm King's Landing."

Frankly, the ploy would be brilliant if it worked. "But what about the negotiations?"

"You will go to Dragonstone after, Davos. Tell them nothing about the Golden Company, but get Jon back by any means. Promise anything, you understand?"

"Will do." Davos bowed. "Your Grace."

"I will go with him."

All eyes turned to Melisandre. "Why do you wish to go?"

Her red gaze met her King's… at least who she said openly was her King. "Azor Ahai will be born among salt and smoke on Dragonstone… you have dragon's blood, and the Targaryen has brought dragons into the world." She inhaled slowly, hoping Stannis would buy what she was selling. "The sooner Lord Stark is saved, the sooner you can return and become the Prince who was Promised."

Stannis did understand.  _Me, a dragonrider?_  He did always feel a calling to the flames, never afraid of them when Melisandre conducted her fire rituals. "Do it. Go prepare now... Hells, everyone leave but Baelish and Tarly."

Everyone complied, most talking amongst themselves. Melisandre was quiet but with a ghost of a smirk… Davos similarly silent, but eyeing Stannis with worry. Praying to the Seven that he be kept with wise counsel in his absence. Jon's absence was already greatly felt.

The door shutting, Stannis gripped the bridge of his nose. "You know that there is no choice in bringing Jon back?" Littlefinger asked.

"Aye," Stannis nodded. "He's doomed either way, much as I detest that fact… but pretending to negotiate leaves open the small chance, as well as distracting the Dragon Bitch while I deal with Cersei." With all his strength, all his power… going against the dragons was courting death. He'd have to play it smart and ruthless.

At that moment one of the Baratheon bannermen entered, offering a dispatch to the first person who stood… which happened to be Lord Randyll. Unfurling the message, his already infamous scowl deepened. "Seems we have a bit of a problem."

"More good news?" Stannis asked sardonically.

"From Oldtown. Seems Lord Leyton Hightower passed away in his bed."

Littlefinger shrugged. "Probably a bad heart." He slapped the table. "The cunt was older than all of us - I'm surprised he lasted this long."

Shaking his head, Randyll glared at the man he considered nothing but a pimp. "The Archmaesters of the Citadel performed the autopsy. Discovered the work of the Long Farewell."

"I know that poison." Stannis rose, eyebrow quirked up. "That's the same poison that Ellaria Sand used to kill Cersei's bastard daughter." It couldn't be a coincidence the same one killed Lord Hightower, currently the only house in the Reach that had yet to truly pledge to his cause.

"That's what the Hightowers believe," Randyll continued. "The new Lord, Baelor, he wishes for your permission to go on the offensive against the Dornish. Houses Redwyne and Peake are mobilized behind them and they wish to seek House Caron."

"Marcher Lords…" His best men. Rising from his chair, Stannis hobbled to the roaring fireplace. Wishing he could see the same visions of his glorious future as Melisandre did - perhaps they'd bring clarity… no, he'd have to rely on his own intelligence. "Baelish, what do your whores say of the Dornish?" With Qyburn working for Cersei and Varys for Daenerys, the brothel owner was his de facto Master of Whisperers.

A syrupy smile spread upon the lips of the Vale Lordling. "Aye, after Euron killed their Lords at Sunspear, Arianne Martell has been having trouble reigning in the others. Half of the new Lords are children, and many wish to sue for peace."

Just the information he needed. "Tell Lord Baelor he may proceed, but he may not repeat the mistakes of the last Dornish Wars. No desert campaigns, no getting bogged down. Seek the Martell armies and wipe them out." Randyll bowed, making his exit. The King turned back to the flames Staring blindly until a flash of the flickering inferno came to his vision… if he squinted, Stannis could just make out an image of himself sitting on the Iron Throne.

_Soon… soon it shall be mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Really hope you liked this one. Certainly lacked in action but there's a lot to glean from this and I hope you were paying attention.
> 
> Lots of really exciting stuff to come. Hope you guys will hang in.
> 
> Longclaw: And so it begins. Jon starts to see the truth about Dany behind the veneer of the Dragon Queen. In his anger, it took Missandei to make him realize that his enemy is still a human, not the monster that he thinks she is (change from the original version; we felt it was better). Not the end of it, but it's a start.
> 
> Cersei and Stannis are plotting, lion and stag trying to kill each other while the dragon licks her wounds and watches. The propaganda and graffiti were my little humorous touch, and the assassination attempt will cause even more chaos.
> 
> Melisandre is still devious.
> 
> And with the Golden Company in the mix... nothing good comes from this ;)
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	25. What You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Hey guys. Sorry for the long delay. Had to make this perfect.
> 
> BRuh4: Hey all. Got a pretty longish one for y'all. Definitely longer than we normally produce. There's a lot to go through so read intently. Some cool shit for sure, and there's a lot more to come in the next handful. We're reaching another of those tentpole moments in a while here. It'll be here before you know it. We certainly can't wait.
> 
> Enjoy.

There was a silence in the room of the Painted Table. The small council of the Targaryen Queen waited with shared looks and curious, apprehensive expressions as their monarch read the raven-borne dispatch that had just arrived from Winterfell. Judging how she had changed from irritated, to curious, to completely white in the space of several seconds. Each wanted to speak up and ask what was in the letter, but none of them had the courage to do so…

Until Ser Barristan stepped forward from his place at Daenerys' side. "Your Grace… is it bad news?"

Violet eyes dazed as she scanned the words up and down for the fifth time, Daenerys set it upon the Painted Table. "I am not alone after all…" Her voice was halting, barely above a murmur, but it held a tiny bit of hope.

The old knight blinked. "Pardon, your Grace?" Did he hear right? Was there a lost Targaryen… an image of a comley, brooding face…

"Aemon Targaryen." The speculations of Barristan and the others in the room were thrown on their heads by her words.

Varys himself was surprised. "The last person of that name was the second son of Maekar Targaryen, your Grace. One that took the robes and chain of a Maester. He would be over a hundred and most likely dead…"

"No, wait." Much of Tyrion's mind from the more mundane days of Joffrey and Robert were clouded from how drunk he was during them, but his trip to Castle Black - especially since the legitimized Jon Snow returned to his orbit - was rather vivid. "There was a Maester Aemon that was one of the sworn brothers of Castle Black… he was basically a walking skeleton by then but he could have been a Targaryen."

Alone among the other four that were truly hopeful from the light in their Queen's eyes, Missandei leaned over from Daenerys' other side to take her hand. "Is that whom the letter is from? Your long-lost great-uncle Aemon?" She had no idea of this man other than a name on the page of a genealogy of House Targaryen - Daenerys didn't either, but now that this man was alive, no longer was Daenerys the last dragon. _At least while he remains alive._ Missandei didn't wish to vocalize that part. As a slave, death was always around the corner, so one tended to cherish the here and now for as long as they could.

Daenerys shook her head, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Ones she hadn't felt since she lost Rhaego, though these were suppressed from falling. "No, they are not from him… but he is coming to Dragonstone."

"That seems rather difficult, considering he is a sworn brother to the Night's Watch." Tyrion fiddled absentmindedly with a figurine supposed to represent a Riverman force. Long removed from the playing field since Duskendale. "The Lord Commander may have allowed Lord Stark leave to… well… leave, but Maester Aemon as well?"

"Last I checked," Varys responded, "My birds in the North found the current Lord Commander is a man named Alliser Thorne… one who served in your father's army during the Rebellion. His loyalty to House Targaryen is unmatched, so I could see him trying to ingratiate himself to you for the benefit of the Watch - so that a steady stream of supplies could continue there in the event of… your victory."

Taking a seat, the events overwhelming her, Daenerys let her head fall to the back of the chair. Staring up at the ceiling and trying to process everything that was starting to occur. It was all giving her a blistering headache. "Lady Sansa Stark has sent him to us as someone allowed to speak for her in negotiations. Daario has ships in White Harbor that can ferry my great-uncle over."

Her translator's lips curled into a frown. "Perhaps it would be best if Daario is as far away as possible."

"I don't want him here, Missandei, but bringing my uncle Aemon is leagues more important." _If I look back, I am lost._ She had made up for his transgressions… at least Daenerys thought she did.

"Anyone else travelling with Aemon? A northern Lord perhaps? One of my former wife's brothers or sister?" Varys had indicated in past briefs that Rickon Stark, Brandon Stark, and Arya Stark had all returned to Winterfell. The reconstruction of a House long thought to have been butchered completely.

Taking the dispatch in hand, Barristan quickly scanned it. "No, only mention of Maester Aemon and his 'Acolyte.'" Barristan frowned, trying to imagine the angle. "The Night's Watch has stayed out of the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. Why get involved now, even at the request of the acting Lady of Winterfell…"

"We're discounting the possibility here," Missandei interrupted, drawing everyone's attention. "Something quite likely if the Night's Watch is this desperate for southern aid… if that is truly Lord Commander Thorne's intention." She paused, knowing what they would think. Even Grey Worm thought she was crazy for believing it, but Missandei wasn't swayed. _Jon Stark… he may be many things but a gifted liar he is not._ "They need the resources to fight the Long Night."

Tyrion snorted, while Varys gave one of his rare smirks. Even Barristan glanced at her skeptically, though what other opinions he possessed he kept to himself. "Come now, Lady Missandei. I know Jon Stark is an honorable man, but grumpkins and snarks roaming the wilds north of the Wall?"

She glared back at him. "Why not? I'm sure few people believed dragons could be hatched by a fire, but her Grace did so."

"There were dragons in recorded history, Lady Missandei," Varys said, tone as if a patronizing maester. "We have the skulls in the Red Keep to prove it. Monsters made of ice that can raise the dead? Even my few birds far in the North haven't sung such a song."

"Enough." The Queen put to bed any further comment. "I will not have that argument again." Gods knew how much her Small Council had debated what Jon Stark had told them. "What are the disposition of the armies?"

In this, Barristan was at his element. "Euron Greyjoy has withdrawn back to King's Landing, though he still has raiders all over the place. The frontline in the Crownlands has stabilized, while no sign of Stannis has been seen from anywhere but Harrenhal close to us. I believe he is either planning to hit King's Landing or invade Dorne."

Daenerys furrowed her brows. "Dorne?"

"Aye. Lord Leyton Hightower was assassinated in Oldtown." Everyone stiffened. "Lord Baelor, his heir, blames both Arianne Martell and you, your Grace."

"I gave no such order."

"Only a brash fool would think such," Tyrion mused. "Arianne just had her high command butchered by the Ironborn. If she was in the place to plan such a high-level assassination, she'd target Euron or Cersei, not the Hightowers." House Lannister knew quite intimately the vengeance mindset of House Martell… tragically, it turned out.

A sigh left Daenerys' lips. "Tell Arianne Martell to take whatever steps necessary to protect her lands. I won't lose another Kingdom as I lost the Reach." That defeat still stung. "Meanwhile, make sure my uncle is treated to the best accommodations."

"Yes, Your Grace," Missandei said.

"I wish to know when he will arrive," Dany added, unable to hide her excitement. She'd always felt alone in this world. Despite being surrounded by people who've helped her. Aside from the scoundrels, Dany's always had people to speak to - a surrogate family there to fill the hole in her heart as best as they could. Jorah was the first. Now, Missandei was here for her. But she never had someone she truly felt like she could relate to. No one in her family.

Viserys was the worst imaginable. She hardly missed him only wishing he might've been smarter. Maybe if he had a sharper mind her House may have already taken the Throne back. Instead he sold her to horselord, thinking he could reason with the Dothraki. What a fool he was.

But to think, another Targaryen in the world. She thought she was the last. The thought felt impossible. Yet, it wasn't. As someone did still live, and she might still speak with them. Even if just for a moment, that would be worth it.

Daenerys turned away from her advisors, towards the open air behind her. "Leave me." Wordlessly, the presence of everyone began to dissipate. Though she sensed someone lingering.

Their voice hit her ear, she knew it to be Ser Barristan, immediately. "Your Grace, if I may?"

"Of course," She welcomed the wisdom of her Hand.

Slowly, Barristan approached until he stood next to her. "I wish to speak of Jon Stark."

"Oh?"

"I believe Sansa Stark is sending Aemon because she wishes for him to convince you to free her brother."

"I suspected that." _Very crafty of her._ Had they not been opponents, Daenerys would have wanted her counsel.

Barrstain grimaced a bit, "I do believe the Night's Watch wishes for aid, but they've been self-sufficient for centuries. That's not what this is about. It makes the most sense that Aemon wanted to come here. Surely, it was Sansa's idea."

"Do you believe Sansa Stark manipulated Aemon at all?" Dany huffed, the thought made her furious.

"No," Barristan shook his head. "The old man was eager, I suppose, to be an emissary. Sansa Stark only wishes for her Brother's safe return. Aemon is a brother of the Night's Watch. He could've easily refused. He wanted to see you before he dies."

Now, that thought did soften her hard outer shell. Aemon wanted to see her. "Will Aemon have terms for me?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not, we won't know until Aemon arrives. I just wish to make you aware of the situation as I perceive it. There's no veil of manipulation here, it's an old man wishing to see the last of his House before he dies. Also, Jon Stark is a part of this because they were close at Castle Black."

"Aemon knows Jon Stark well, you think?"

"Yes, I believe so," Barristan nodded firmly. "That must be the reason Sansa Stark has sent him. She cares not for you seeing Aemon before he dies. She knows you'd want to see him. No way you'd cast him away, it's an easy way to get a negotiation started. The interesting thing will be how Aemon speaks of Jon Stark. His words will not be rehearsed. Likely, his words will be very illuminating as to who exactly Jon Stark really is."

Dany regarded her Hand's words - wisdom of many decades of proud service. "I see." Jon Stark… he'd been an enigma for so long. Only she and Missandei had even scratched the surface, but except for the one outburst over the dead men north of the Wall, he had remained largely guarded and brooding. _And yet he bonded with my uncle…_ A Targaryen and Stark, friendly to each other. "If Aemon cares for him, then there may be hope for Lord Stark after all."

"It will still be a slow process, to gain Jon Stark's trust - and even longer to gain his fealty. Ned Stark never broke his oath to Robert even when the Usurper laughed at your butchered family."

"I am well aware of that."

 _It wasn't just Ned who kept oaths so firmly…_ "Jon seems to have a much greater sense of justice, but we cannot count on Stannis to commit so grave a crime as to force him to us."

Daenerys looked at him firmly. "I won't manipulate him to our cause. People would see right through it…" And she couldn't. _There are enough beaten worms in this reality._ The Dragon Queen couldn't destroy the dignity of the one honest man left, even if he were her enemy.

"It's not about manipulation, Your Grace. Jon Stark cannot be manipulated, not with this. If you want him to follow you, then you must show him why you're worth following. Missandei can fill his ears with your victories all day. Unfortunately, I don't think that will ever be enough," Barristan said, trying to make her understand what he did. "He has to see you for what you are. Not what you've done. Only you can show him that."

Hearing his words, she sighed. Knowing likely he was right. She might have to go talk to the brooding man herself. "I understand. Thank you, Ser Barristan."

"Of course, Your Grace," Barristan smiled and nodded. Then he walked off and left the Dragon Queen to her thoughts.

* * *

"One hour!"

"For gods' sake." Daario Naharis wanted to bash the obstinate, obnoxious pimp in the head. He had been to pleasure houses all over the world - much as he preferred to seduce his conquests, sometimes the urge didn't leave much choice - and even in the former slave dens of Astapor he hadn't found a pimp as horrid as this northern cunt. "In Pentos this buys at least three hours."

The ruddy-faced man growled. Ignorant of the ways Daario could kill him in mere seconds… but the gaps where his fingers should have been forced only the best behavior. "'Ere in Aight Arbor! One hour!" Shrugging, Daario nodded and forked over the gold dragon. This was accepted with eager fingers fat as sausages. "And no silver hair, only blonde. I no's Lys." The door to the… sampling chambers shut.

 _Stupid shit._ "Well, I guess it's just us," he accepted with the signature cocky grin. One that hadn't died in the punishment the Queen had given him. "Best make the best of it."

The whore was slim, young, and quite fair of color. Hair a golden blonde and skin a pale milk… something not seen often in Essos. Skin could work, eyes… blue… size, the same. While the pleasure houses in Lys could accommodate his… specific tastes quite well. "I don't often get dashing warriors not of the North," she giggled, furs pulled up to just above her breasts. Legs bent alluringly as she sat up in bed.

Daario grinned wider. He knew the drill… the whore telling him what he wanted to hear. Didn't matter to him. She was a warm body and looked enough like her. "I'd prefer it if you didn't talk. Just enjoyed."

She looked… relieved… "Most men don't care about that part…"

"Ah, no talking." Quickly disrobing, he pulled away the furs so he could slide underneath them. Even with the roaring hearth, the north was still too fucking cold for Daario. _Not surprising that the wolf cunt came from here…_

The whore was a professional. Hitting all the right notes - well-timed moan, bucking her hips. Wrapping her arms and legs about him as if she actually enjoyed his advances. Daario knew he was skilled enough to drive even a whore to legitimate pleasure, but he never counted on it - this one wasn't his intended woman. Eyes closed and simply feeling the warm channel and petite body underneath, it was easy enough to imagine his top conquest. The one woman that had dazzled him rather than the other way around.

Efforts almost mechanic at this point, Daario pictured Daenerys as the one. Their bodies intertwined, seeking release in a frenzied abandon. They had shared each other's bed almost every other night of peace… until she kicked him out. Daario didn't begrudge her, for Daenerys' desires did come second to her need to consolidate control in Westeros. Seeking alliance by marriage was part of that, but only after her victory…

Pushing up with his hands, Daario's hand ached. Reminding him of his punishment. Of why he was sent to this frozen hellhole. _Had I been unshackled, I'd have saved Olenna's army._ Somehow, the mighty Queen that had so dazzled him had gone soft. Had in turn been dazzled by a northern barbarian that nearly killed her dragon. Every blow he rained on Jon Stark, every insult, he saw the look in her eye. The knowledge that she was risking her very strength for that man. No matter what anger she showed him, Daario could tell - for he saw the same look in himself in regards to Daenerys.

Gasping as he finished inside the whore, the anger and bitterness… and determination only welled up inside him. He would not let Jon Stark be the ruin of his Queen. Not while he still had breath in his body.

His attempts to get his coin's worth for the hour were dashed when a rather loud banging on the door rang out through the chambers. "Fuck off! Occupied!" Daario shouted, hands continuing their exploration of the whore's slim body. The knocking continued, causing him to snarl. "Fuck off!"

"Get oot o' ere, sellsword!" came the gruff voice of the proprietor.

"Kiss my ass, I still have…" he glanced at the hourglass. "Half my time and I intend to use it." The whore kept quiet - knowing better than to say anything.

But the proprietor didn't back down. "Starks want er' time now. So git before I 'ave er' booted oot!"

Groaning, Daario rose from the bed. Giving the girl one last slap on the asscheek before reaching for his breeches and tunic. Ignoring the shouts for him to hurry up, making sure his curved blade was closeby. Fingerstumps aching as he laced the ties of his clothes - yet another thing for him to clench his teeth on - Daario finally felt himself presentable and armored against the cold. Opening the door, he found the proprietor gone. Someone far taller and burlier in his place. "Well," he said, giving a shit-eating grin to hide his annoyance. "What brings you here, Lady Brienne?"

If the fact that he was forced to deal with some female highborn playing knight irritated Daario, he didn't show it. But the icy demeanor of the Lady of Tarth clearly did. She wore her feelings on a sleeve. "Why am I not surprised that I found you here?"

"After weeks at sea with nothing but gruff men, can you blame me?" Such charm was wasted on her, but it was a useful fallback. "I presume something important led you to interrupt me, Lady Brienne? Is it something with the grain?" _Couldn't you have talked to the ship's steward instead of me? I'm no shitty grain merchant._ Somehow, the indignity hurt worse than his fingerstumps.

"No. The gift your Queen has given us has been unloaded on schedule." The word 'gift' came out as if it were the vilest poison. Defeating their army and imprisoning their lord had made Daenerys and her people quite hated by the northerners. Only guaranteed his thinking that she was wasting her time trying to woo Jon the Bastard. "Lady Sansa Stark has requested that you ferry a delegation to Dragonstone on her behalf… to consult with Queen Daenerys."

Daario raised an eyebrow. "Leaving out the fact that my Queen wants me here… what makes you think that Lady Sansa's delegation would be received?" The soft Daenerys currently reigning on Dragonstone probably would, but the sellsword wanted to poke through the request to see what was mush and what was steel.

Brienne rolled her eyes. "While I volunteered to lead the delegation… Podrick!" A rather mousy young man with dark hair stood from where he was sitting, a gaggle of whores gushing over him. "We're here to work, not play!" The boy bowed and hurried out. _Must be either very long or very rich._ Shrugging, Brienne went on. "Lady Sansa found the proper person to lead the negotiations between the North and Dragonstone."

"And who would that be?"

"Maester Aemon Targaryen, formally Prince of Westeros." Turns out, there were things that could surprise Daario these days.

* * *

After witnessing his sister's throat being slashed open. Theon feared he was next. His only action was to leap off the deck of the _Seabitch_. Luckily, there was some debris nearby for him to latch onto. The waves carried him away as Euron's ships sailed off. They didn't look for him. Probably assuming he'd just drown. Even that would've been better than meeting the fate Euron had for him.  
  


For a while, Theon thought he'd just eventually let go of the piece of wood that had been his lifeline. His strength began to drain quickly. His body was tired. Passing out would mean certain death, and pass out he did. His head sunk under the crashing waves, washing over him. Thankfully, he began to breath again. The water rushed inside his mouth and immediately into his lungs. Under the waves, his eyes shot open. Bringing his head back up, he wretched hard, coughing the seawater out onto his arms. Breathing hard, he used what strength left he had to muster to bring more of his body up on top of the wood.

There he stayed. For a length of time immemorial. Be it hours, days, weeks, he could not be sure. The moon hovered over him at least once, though in his daze he couldn't be sure. Remembering Yara, the sight of Euron's knife at her throat. The blood spurting from it. As the thirst began to overcome him, the sun beating down on his tired body, perhaps death would be fitting. After failing Yara, didn't he deserve it…

But it was all for naught. The drowned god had other plans, washing him ashore. The current carried him where it wanted to go. Allowing him to be found by the Dornish patrols. To be taken to the Water Gardens and treated for his wounds. Perhaps there was a use for him after all?

Resting in the lone room where he had been kept for weeks, for the thousandth time that day he gazed outside the window. All stories painted the Water Gardens as a paradise, and with its palm trees, vibrant pools and fountains, and brilliant columns covered in vines, he could see why it was thought of as such. But now… it was pandemonium. Sunspear still under constant Ironborn patrols, all of the Dornish court had been moved here. As such, the courtyards were filled with tents, boxes of supplies stacked everywhere. Squabbling courtiers and bannermen were constantly bickering, and who could blame them. Most of the senior Dornish lords had been butchered by Euron, leaving in some cases ten year old boys in charge of great houses that had survived multiple conquest attempts.

And Theon could see the looks of hate given to him. Regardless of the fact he was on their side, an Ironborn was an Ironborn to the Dornish at this point. Only direct orders from the top kept him from having his throat slit in his sleep.

_Maybe that would be for the best…_

His morbid musings were interrupted when the door flew open. Theon barely had time to turn when three guards escorted in a petite, commanding figure in a rather elaborate burnt-orange gown with a tiara atop her head. _Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne._ He bowed. "Princess. Forgive me for my state of undress."

Eying the bandaged torso bare to the world, Arianne waved it off. She had seen worse. "Good news, Theon Greyjoy, you are to return to Dragonstone by order of Ser Barristan Selmy."

Theon blinked. "Shouldn't my uncle's patrols prevent that?"

"A lone fishing skiff shouldn't draw their notice, but even if it does we are to take that risk." At his raised eyebrow, she continued. "Dorne will be invaded, likely within the moon."

This was surprising. "What? Why would any fool do that?" Even Aegon the Conqueror couldn't subjugate Dorne, and he had dragons.

"Apparently, Lord Leyton Hightower was murdered in Oldtown." The beautiful Princess shook her head. "While I did not order this, the assassin they found is claimed to be a bannerman of Lord Yronwood. Since the old Lord Yronwood is dead and the new Lord is but four and ten, I highly doubt he gave the order."

One of the guards… not a guard, but a rather handsome Dornish knight, muttered, "I bet it was Cersei. She's the only one conniving enough to pull it off."

From how Arianne rubbed his shoulder, it didn't take a genius to see that they were lovers. "Don't be so sure, Edric." Edric Dayne - Theon thought he could recognize the infamous Dawn on his hip. "Could easily have been Littlefinger manipulating Stannis' command, but I digress. House Hightower will invade, and we need you in Dragonstone."

"Is that all?" he croaked, burns stinging again.

"No, her Grace wants you there as well… or at least Barristan does."

"Why?"

"Because they have a prisoner there that they think you could have a rapport with. Stannis Baratheon's master of war, I believe."

"Jon?"

"I know not his name. Only that you are to be transported to Dragonstone."

How Jon was captured Theon had no idea. The thought of seeing him somewhat excited him. Yet, he suspected he would be met with hostility. Given he had totally failed to bring the Ironborn to Stannis' side. He hoped Jon might be in chains to prevent him from choking Theon to death. Though aside from being given to Euron, anything was better than the cell he'd resided in. Recently he'd only thought this cell would be the place he'd die.

Why Daenerys wanted him to speak to Jon confused him. What would he have to offer? He and Jon had hardly been friends. Perhaps they wanted a recognizable face to try to sway him. He couldn't guess.

Despite that, he no longer had any qualms about leaving Dorne.

* * *

Jolt of the ship shaking him awake, Sam Tarly reached out within the narrow berth for the warm body that he automatically assumed would be cuddled next to him. Nothing but cold, empty sheets greeted the maester's acolyte. Assuming next in his sleepy state that she may be on a different bunk, or ending to their son, Sam glanced to his right only to find the cabin deserted except for him.

Reality finally hit him. He was alone, voyage mirroring his original journey from Oldtown to White Harbor years before at his father's insistence. For the first time in many moons, Gilly wouldn't be sleeping beside him, seeking out his warmth and showering him with love. Sam sighed. He didn't regret leaving his all but wife at Winterfell in the care of Lady Sansa, but sleeping alone was something he'd have to get used to again…

Then, all thoughts of loneliness and love were shoved aside as the rocking of the ship finally took its toll. Shooting out of the swaying berth, Sam rushes to the chamber pot and emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Dry heaves continuing to spasm painfully even when there was nothing left to expel. Gilly would have giggled at his still persistent seasickness. His father would have probably groaned and smacked him.

Randyll Tarly has made it clear he was nothing but a shameful failure last time they spoke, after all.

Once he had basically voided everything within his stomach, however minute, Sam had managed to weakly lace his own leather gambeson and woollen breeches, still dressed in the garb of the Night's Watch - he hadn't earned his link and chain yet. _Well, let's check in on Maester Aemon._ Stepping out of his cabin, Sam hadn't gotten five paces before he turned a corner and nearly ran smack into someone. "Oh gods… I'm sorry…"

"Watch where you're going, Tarly," Daario Naharis hissed, eyes narrowing at him. The sellsword that had picked them up in White Harbor to ferry them to the Dragon Queen on Dragonstone. That didn't mean he had to like it. The sellsword didn't much care for Sam. The portly acolyte felt it was partly his association with Westeros and the North, but he could find the same contempt that his father held in Naharis' eyes. Contempt rooted into derision - a soft, fat boy playacting at war. Even years at the Wall couldn't end such. "I need you on the deck."

Sam blinked. "What do you need?" He just wanted to break his fast with Maester Aemon and try to not worry about his family in Winterfell.

"The Targaryen… the old codger. He's worrying me."

"What's wrong with Maester Aemon?" Sam asked with worry.

"Follow me." The journey to the top of the cog's deck passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Sam was being pointed to the old figure of Aemon Targaryen simply staring at the sea, alone on deck. "He's been like that for hours! I don't care about any of you, but I won't deliver a dead uncle to her Grace. Deal with it or I'll chuck you overboard." He stomped off, leaving Sam alone to deal with the situation.

Approaching the old maester, Sam hesitantly cleared his throat. "Maester Aemon…" No response. "Maester Aemon." A little louder.

The maester finally turned around. "Oh, Tarly… sorry." He chuckled. "My ears aren't as they used to be… given my blindness, that's not a good thing."

Sam offered a smile. "You're almost a century old. I'd say your hearing is fine, all things considered." They both grinned at the quip. "Are you alright? The crew has been… worried."

"Thinking a senile old man is just wandering the deck?" Aemon knew what people perceived of him. "I've been in colder climates than this, and I'm warm. As for the rest… I needed some air."

"What for, Maester Aemon? Is it about your niece? Worried if she'll turn out… like her father?" Sam bit his lip - that fact had worried him more than once.

Aemon said nothing to that, merely staring out into the depths of the Shivering Sea. As if searching for something with his unseeing eyes… perhaps not on an earthly plane. "You know, Tarly," he finally stated. "This reminds me of the last time I was on board a ship. Sailing from the home I knew as a child long ago. The embrace of my brother still fresh on my arms and in my memory."

"Aegon the Unlikely?" Sam answered the unasked question as well as any eager boy in his maester's sessions.

The old former Prince nodded, grey hair fluttering in the wind. "Aye, the youngest among us. Three sons of King Maeker ahead of him, my father the youngest son as well. Much luck for them… although I consider it a tragedy." Many had died so that Maeker and Aegon could succeed to the Iron Throne. "Egg wasn't meant to rule, no more than I was. He was such a sweet lad. Cared about people, married for love… Every bit an 'Egg.'" He laughed, as if recalling a wistful, happy memory long gone from a cruel world.

Sam allowed a smile. "He sounds like someone who loved you, Maester."

"I don't think Egg could have hated anyone in his childhood…" The laughs ceased, replaced with a hardness. A dragon awoken. "But the Realm couldn't have an Egg. It needed an Aegon, a dragon." Suddenly coughing, he nevertheless waved Sam off. "'Kill the boy. Kill Egg and let Aegon emerge from the egg. Kill the boy, and let the man be born.' That is what I said to him last. My last words to someone of my blood."

Once Aemon allowed it, Sam brought the old man to a low bench to sit. "From what is said, he ruled wisely and benevolently, up to his tragic end."

Toothless gums pursing together, grief poured out of his milky violet eyes. "Tragedy… he was killed because he couldn't kill the boy…" Aemon shook his head. "If I look back, I am lost. My dear Grandfather often told me that." Taking a deep breath of the cool, sea air, Aemon closed his eyes. "I said the same words to Jon Snow… Stark. To kill the man…" A tear fell down his wrinkled cheek. "And for the life of me, when I felt his face… I saw my brother. My Egg…"

What could Sam say to that? Wordlessly, he patted Aemon's shoulder. Trying to give the old man a tiny bit of comfort. "Jon… he's a person larger than life. He underestimates himself all the time."

Aemon nodded. "I care for that boy like the son I never had. As much as Egg… and my last family is facing him as an enemy." Ever since learning of Daenerys' arrival, images of the two of them killing each other had plagued his mind.

Sam bit his lip. "Do you think she is like her father?"

The wind whipped against the side of the ship. Aemon closing his eyes. "I can't afford to believe so… but for once I trust the gods." Vibrant violet stared unseeingly at Sam. "But it doesn't take madness to make a dreadful mistake."

* * *

And here he was, his long journey of duty and conquest had led him back to where it all began. Where he began, emerging from his mother's womb to his destiny. The ancestral castle of House Baratheon - and House Durrandon before them - Storm's End.

Standing atop the highest point of the single tower that overlooked all of Shipbreaker Bay, Stannis has no fear of the great heights of Durran's Point. At long last, he could count his homeland among his domain. Protected by smooth, densely packed stone walls that could withstand the mightiest storm, Storm's End would serve as the seat of the True King of Westeros until he could rip Cersei Lannister's rotting corpse off of the Iron Throne. Disgusted at spending any more time in the Reach, Stannis was glad at the change in scenery.

Well, as glad as he could be with his aching leg in the pouring rain.

Oiled raincoat of sheepskin having managed to keep the freezing winter rainstorm from his thin frame, after half an hour the King decided not to push his luck. No desire for solitude and quiet contemplation was worth potential fever. Pushing his way into the stairwell leading to the Lord's Quarters, Stannis was greeted by his guards. "Your Grace," they bowed. Honorable men that had served him since Dragonstone, yet visibly glad to be home.

Stannis nodded. "Anything you have to report?"

"Nothing from Lord Davos or Lord Baelish, your Grace." Each was well versed in what their King was desirous of. "But the Princess Shireen did request your presence in the solar."

The one person or thing that could both calm and put a smile on Stannis Baratheon's face, it was his daughter. "When was this?"

"Just after you arrived at the tower."

Stannis grumbled. "You kept my daughter's request waiting that long… forget it." Leaning on the cane he had only recently started carrying once more, he ambled for his quarters. Guards following close behind him. Not even the armies of twenty thousand Tyrells could break through the walls of Storm's End, but assassins were a different matter entirely. One couldn't be too careful.

The solar was lavishly decorated. Teak and mahogany furniture imported from the Summer Isles, crystal chandeliers and goblets carved in the Lysene luxury guilds, hand-woven Myrish carpets… Renly had used the newfound wealth of a royal house to his advantage, and frankly it disgusted Stannis. The luxuries of this life couldn't ever be carried out into the next, and no one could use such finery for the coming Long Night. _He was always weak, torpid, narrowly ambitious…_ Declaring himself King even before Robert's body was cold and negotiating with the Tyrells. The boy was playing at war and at this point, Stannis felt it was a proper to kill him before the horrors of conflict and ruling would have done it, only slowly rather than the sweet mercy that he and Melisandre had given him.

He snorted. _Robert, Renly… winning the throne was the same as having it._ Neither could rule, nor did they deserve to. He did. He was destined to rule, no matter what he needed to forego or sacrifice.

But seven hells, he did enjoy the comfort of a plush, well-upholstered loveseat on his tense back and rear.

As always, it was the blood of his blood that brought serenity to the tempest of his own mind as violent as the storms of his native land. "Father," Shireen said with a smile, hugging him tightly.

He chuckled, hard blue eyes filled with a rare warmth. "You look happy today, my dearest daughter." The cracked scars on her face brought a flash of pain to him - anger at the nameless merchant that sold her the greyscale-laced toy one that never ceased burning inside him - but it evaporated in her joy. "What's the occasion?"

She looked up at him incredulously. "You don't know?"

Stannis furrowed his brows. "Am I supposed to?"

His daughter giggled merrily. "Oh father." Another hug followed. "Happy fortieth nameday."

 _What, it's not… gods almighty._ It was his nameday, forty years upon the earth. And in his stress and struggle he had completely forgot. _Usually it was Davos that remembered such redundancy._ Sentimentality wasn't high on the list of Stannis Baratheon's priorities, but at the moment he couldn't deny his daughter's happiness. "I suppose it is, thank you."

"Father, did you forget again?" Shireen was growing into a young maiden, but her eyes sparkled with the same childlike mirth at that moment.

Stannis couldn't help but chuckle. "Perhaps I did forget. Perils of ruling, I'm afraid."

Leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him - Stannis bending down so as to offer her his stubbly cheek - she ended up dashing off to a particular chair. Returning with a large tapestry. "I've been working on it since Winterfell. Something to hang up in the Red Keep when you take the throne, at least if it's good…"

Taking the large belt of cloth and unfurling it, Stannis came face to face with a stitched tale of his campaigns. All arranged in three rows. Boarding the ships at Dragonstone, the lines of cavalry beneath the wall, archers raining fire upon the Boltons before Winterfell, Stannis and Jon Stark battling with the Lannisters at Northhill, culminating with the great victory at Highgarden. "This is…"

"I left the last row blank… for your final victories. The final image will be you on the Iron Throne…" Shireen was cut off when her father embraced her.

"You, my daughter, are more than I could have ever asked for… thank you." From Stannis, such was the finest praise one could ever heap upon a person. "I love you."

She sighed happily. "I love you too, father." They pulled back after another moment. "I know Davos usually handles this, but perhaps I can arrange a feast for us… to celebrate your nameday?"

He shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary… but I wouldn't mind a private dinner, just you, your mother, and myself."

Shireen beamed. "I will go to the kitchens right now!" Dashing off, she almost crashed into Queen Selyse. "Mother! Father loved the present!"

The Queen offered a tiny smile. "Aye, I knew he would. Now run along child, it's time for me to change his dressings." Shireen nodded and ran off to the kitchens, Selyse closing the door behind her. "Your Grace," she curtseyed.

"Wife," Stannis offered, hobbling towards a loveseat. "Let's get this over with." Normally, Melisandre supervised such measures or did them herself, but with her gone it was his wife that he trusted with this. No one else could he trust without having ulterior motives. Gingerly, he took a seat, wincing as he placed his bad leg out for Selyse to inspect. "It's getting worse again." Elevating it managed to help.

Withdrawn and pious as she was, in being a caregiver Selyse managed to rise to the occasion. As the maester had shown her what to do, all the tools were lined out on a strip of cloth on the teak table. Folding up his breeches, she pursed her lips at the soiled bandages. "Should have been done two days ago."

"Been busy." Baelor Hightower was up in arms and demanding a full invasion of Dorne. Stannis had bought him off with one secondary to the buildup against Cersei, but the juggling of his now vast numerical advantage over two fronts needed the Golden Company to work. _If only the Northerners hadn't betrayed you…_ He kept having to remind himself that they were defeated… _Are you sure?_

Sighing, Selyse took the small knife and began cutting off the bandages, revealing the open ulcer that his leg wound had turned into. "I'll have to lance it." The other knife took to his skin, Stannis gasping in pain as a large river of pus dripped in a bowl she had placed right underneath the wound. "We have to talk about Jon Snow, husband."

He groaned, only half from the pain. "There's nothing more to discuss." She had heeded his warning the last time, many moonturns ago. And yet, Stannis could tell that Jon's surrender at Duskendale only served to breathe new life into her distrust of him. "Jon may have lost, but he is loyal."

"You are the Lord's Chosen, my love… you can't afford to blind yourself to reality." Her pale blue eyes found his, an intensity about them of a mind long gone. Long surrendered to the Faith of R'hillor in a depth that even Stannis hadn't let himself descended. "He bent the knee."

"I doubt it," Stannis shook his head. "If he had, they wouldn't be holding him captive. He surrendered to save the lives of his men. There was no other choice."

Selyse scowled, biting her lip, "No. I know that boy saw that dragon and shite in his trousers. He bent the knee, must've. Besides, it's better with him gone. The men only look to you now. They praised him too much, nearly worshipped him. He doesn't deserve that. But you do. You are the chosen one. You are the Prince Who Was Promised."

"Jon was nothing but loyal. I trusted no one more."

"Forget about him, forget I tell you," Selyse nearly hissed. "He's gone. He's not worth saving. I know not why you even wanted to send Davos."

"Davos knows what he's doing. I trust him too."

"I doubt you even think he has the slightest chance of succeeding."

She was right, but Stannis found himself reluctant to admit it. "I have to try."

"What for? For some bastard who'd likely betray you at the earliest opportunity?" Selyse told him, then got up close. "Don't you see? It's a sign. A sign of the Lord of Light, the bastard boy had served his purpose. The Lord did the hard part for you. He took the boy out of your sight… All you have to do is look the other way."

"No." Sheen of sweat on his forehead as Selyse squeezed the last bit of discharge from his wound, Stannis refused to believe it. "He told me of the true threat Beyond the Wall. He has fought for me with more loyalty than all but Davos." The scenes on Shireen's tapestry told the story. Every battle from Castle Black to Northhill, Jon Stark was there in the middle of the fight. The Wrath of the North, Master of War to the one true King.

Selyse took a strip of linen, laughing sardonically. "You always had a soft spot for him. From even at Castle Black, when you knew him not."

She spoke true here. "I did."

"You planned on marrying Shireen to him," Selyse accuses. Her one success for her husband, a daughter marred with Greyscale. She never forgave herself for that, pledging her life to the Lord of Light simply to atone for her failure. "Poisoning our bloodline with those heathens?"

Wanting to erupt in anger, the pain of the poultice burning his leg was simply tearing through Stannis… "He… he is a good man… loyal to me…"

"Then why haven't you saved him?" Selyse has been told by Lord Baelish of her husband's doubt. Of the futility expressed by all but Ser Davos in regards to ransoming or rescuing Jon from the clutches of the dragon bitch. Melisandre has preordained Stannis in the snow, bringing the Dawn. All others matter not. "Why do you not wish to save him?"

Shivering from the intense pain, Stannis could only feebly raise his head to meet Selyse's gaze. "For all I know… she burned him alive…"

"He has betrayed you!" she quickly hissed, almost ready to hit something before she withdrew into herself. Quieting down. Pious to the end, she would not let her chaotic mind serve to push Stannis away from the truth. Selyse had learned her lesson from the last time in Harrenhal where she brought this up. "All shacked up with the Dragon Queen I bet he is. Dashed off at the first sign of trouble. He's no true man. I bet he spits on your name and tells them all of our plans."

 _The night is dark and full of terrors…_ Dead men, dragons… Those words held a frightening reality to them, far more than the simple ominous warning given when Melisandre first arrived on Dragonstone. "He would never… he's the son of Ned Stark." The man of honor that had died trying to secure his reign - by that alone, Stannis owed Jon Stark every chance.

A feeling that Selyse felt she had to break - knew she had to break. "Can't you see what happened? Why do you think the Dragon Queen let the Northern army flee northward? Lord Tully, Lord Umber, Lord Reed, the filthy wildling chieftains? Because the bastard bent the knee!" she hissed.

"Impossible," Stannis murmured. Gritting his teeth as the clean linen bandages were wrapped tightly around his wound.

"Would the Mad King you faced have done that? Would the same daughter that crucified thousands in Meereen and burnt alive untold thousands across Essos have done that unless she secured something big?" Selyse's eyes were wide, glassy with a pious zeal that had gripped her for years. "You are the fire made flesh, the light that banishes the darkness… Jon Snow is ice, winter, the cold blizzard that snuffs out the light… do not let him destroy you, my dear husband. My love… my King and savior." There was silence from the King, his pain too much to control.

Minutes later, Stannis was tucked into his bed, shivering in his sleep as a small dose of Milk of the Poppy kept him out of the worst of it. Enough to tide him over till Shireen's planned nameday dinner would be ready. Closing the door gingerly, Selyse removed the crinkled parchment from the folds of her dress

_Your Grace the Queen,_

_It pains me to relay this information to you, considering my cherishing of the Lady Sansa and my loyalty to your husband the King. However, my spies have informed me of ships in White Harbor unloading supplies. Ships bearing the banner of House Targaryen. Additional eyes hunted constantly by the Spider have Jon Stark being given accommodations among the keep at Dragonstone. Comfortable and alongside the Dragon Queen's allies._

_While I am sure Lady Sansa has not forgotten the perfidy of House Targaryen against House Stark, I am afraid that Jon Stark hasn't, and has switched sides. His Grace must be protected lest betrayal come from here._

_I shall make sure the North under Lady Sansa stays ready to support the one true King of Westeros._

_Trust no one else… not even Ser Davos. He is too fond of Jon Stark._

_His Grace's ever loving servant,_

_Lord Petyr Baelish._

Shaking with fear and devotion, she ran to the fireplace. Eyes closed as she begged for the providence of the one true god. "Lord," she mumbled. "Cast your light upon me… burn away my anger and sins… let me serve you…burn away our enemies and show me the path to achieve your strength... for the night is dark and full of terrors…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: Lots of talking, lots of underlying shit. We really enjoyed putting this one together. All the sorts of pieces coming together. I hope you can finally start to grasp what we're doing here. There were so many doubters. But we knew there was a good plan in place. We're still going strong and it will be done correctly. We are going to do our damndest to make sure it's perfect, and the two of us are working more closely to make sure there are no mistakes.
> 
> Just buckle up if you're along for the ride, is all I'm gonna say.
> 
> Longclaw: Not much action, but lots of different moving pieces. Littlefinger starts whatever he's planning, and we get a glimpse into why Daario did what he did.
> 
> Aemon... we all know he was gonna affect Dany. She's knowingly nog alone now, and his arrival will only start something that will get plenty moving.
> 
> Arianne, she finally has her birthright (the Dorne storyline was always shit).
> 
> Drop a comment, and be sure to check out our other stories :D
> 
> Tell your friends.


	26. Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longclaw: Sorry for the long wait, but I think this will be worth it :D
> 
> Read some great stories recently. A Jade Dragon by my friend bykim0120 and Gift of the Gods by Nielsen1984. Check em out :D
> 
> BRuh4: Hey all, we're back with another one. I hope you like it. We sure do. This is one we really enjoyed writing together.
> 
> Enjoy.

Cold to the touch, rough against her back and rear.  _No ruler worth his salt should be comfortable upon a throne._  And for Daenerys it was no exception. While not forged from the sharp points and protruding hilts of the swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies, the Dragonglass throne had its own discomfort about it. But only her second time ever sitting here, Daenerys cared not. Mind preoccupied with something momentous about to happen.

Within the cavernous hall, the drumming of the Queen's fingers upon the seat of the throne echoed about the walls. "Take a breath, your Grace," Tyrion advised, voice louder than he would have wished. The size of the seat of Targaryen Lords and Princes kept him far from Daenerys. "There's no sense in you being nervous."

Twin violet eyes flickered to the side, narrowing at her advisor. Debating between having him or Barristan escort the party from the beach, Dany felt that she had erred in not sending the former. "If you were about to meet someone from your family you never imagined to ever meet, I'd think you'd be nervous too."

"Well, with my family… I'd be more nervous for my life." His attempt to lighten his Queen's mood noclearly failed once he saw her glare not softening. "Sorry, bad jape."

Sighing, Dany placed her hands in her lap… only for her foot to start tapping. "Seven bloody hells… It's just my great-uncle. My long-lost great-uncle that I hadn't even heard of when I thought I was the last Targaryen…" Yet again the prospect overwhelmed her, burying her face in her hands. A gesture of vulnerability, the young woman alone in the world hiding underneath the layers of fire and blood that had forged the Mother of Dragons into existence.

Tyrion looked uncomfortable at the moment, but Missandei stepped gingerly by her friend's side. "Perhaps this Aemon would feel the same way that you did, moreso even."

Taking a calming breath, Daenerys peered up at Missandei. "And how would that be? Did he end up watching his own brother have his face nearly melted off? Knowing that it might be for the best but also that it meant you would be alone forever? Cursed with a barren womb and a stillborn child?" She didn't intend to be biting, but it just came out.

Missandei, to her credit, took none of it personally. "If what Lord Varys says about him is true, then he has been alone at the Wall for decades. Helpless to watch his family, your family, suffer tragedy after tragedy since only he and you were left."

Her eyes fluttered shut. "You're right." Her story mirrored Aemon's greatly, if anything the old maester had the worst of it.  _How chaotic is his constitution? Having imagined me for so long…_

Just then, the door to the audience chamber opened - just a sliver - to let in one of Daenerys' bloodriders. Daenerys straightened immediately. _"Mori hash she, khaleesi,"_  he said simply.

Meeting the eyes of both her translator, who smiled, and her advisor, who nodded, Daenerys took a breath and gestured to the door.  _"San athchomari yeraan, Rokharo. Fichat eyak tat anna."_

Clasping his sword arm against his muscled chest, Rokharo complied, darting out again.  _Well, this is it._  Another deep breath into her lungs, stoking the inner flame within her blood. Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains… she could handle the reality she was no longer alone in the world.

Back straight, she was the picture of regal grace… yet for this, the customary black leather battledress and severe braids were dispensed with. Instead, a flowing black dress with bits of red lace adorned her, hemline and bodice both lined with the color of blood. Her House's colors, topped off with a diadem atop her head. Power, yet of a soft kind - not for a conqueror, but that of a monarch. She decided to dress more Queen-like for the occasion, even though Aemon could never look upon her.

Both doors flew open as the bloodriders fanned out in a protective pattern. Ser Barristan right behind, his aging yet nimble legs carrying him to the base of Daenerys' dias. Unsullied guards followed, and then…  _Daario._  It didn't surprise Dany to see his smug grin saunter into the room. In the past, it might have caused a bit of desire in her loins. But now, she felt nothing. Even though her Queenly mask hid revulsion, Dany made a mental note to send him to the mainland as soon as possible after food was delivered to White Harbor..

But it was those that Daario and several Unsullied were escorting that drew her attention. Two robed figures, one with clinking maester chains and the other without. Her eyes widened involuntarily, form frozen on the throne...

Missandei cleared her throat, beginning. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name. Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, the Unburnt. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons." How she managed to say all without stopping was beyond all but her. Probably with a lot of practice.

The younger man without the chain stepped forward, bowing. "Your Grace… Samwell Tarly, acolyte of the Citadel, if it pleases you." Taking her stunned silence as approval, he continued. "This is Aemon Targaryen, Prince of the Realm and Maester of Castle Black."

She took in the man, formally introduced as her great-uncle. He was old, very old - wrinkles covering his entire face as he stooped over. Two bony hands just emerged from the folds of his robe, hobbled by age and rheumatism. The expression was toothless and eyes glassy, but Daenerys could only see the violet in his eyes. The hint of silver in his hair.  _He is a Targaryen through and through._  "Ae…" She hesitated. "Aemon Targaryen." It came out softer than she intended. Less commanding. "Please step forward."

Blind as he was, as soon as the voice hit his ears Aemon perked up. As if a livewife coursed through him, hearing a ghost.  _Shaera… sweet niece? Is that you?_  Older certainly than his brother's little girl, but the resemblance was almost a clone. Slowly, he hobbled forward, cane clinking upon the polished tile floor. Sam walked next to him, the old man often needed an arm to rest on.  _Scuffle, clink. Scuffle, clink. Scuffle, clink…_  "Your Grace… Queen Daenerys…"

Each step that Aemon drew closer as if her heart thumped in her chest, Daenerys stood. Lace of her dress billowing about her. "Your Grace…" Tyrion began, feeling she needed to keep her regal composure but she ignored him. Walking down to Aemon's level at the bottom of the steps.

"Uncle Aemon," she breathed, voice soft. Now fully face to face, her eyes scanned him head to toe, mystified by his mere existence. This only being the second Targaryen she'd ever seen, the old man had the look if anyone did. Though surely he could live an unassuming life. A man as aged as this, no one would look twice.

Aemon's blank eyes stared at her as if he truly could see, though his blindness wouldn't fully impair him. His bony hand reached up to touch her cheek. Dany leaned down a bit to meet him. Both Targaryens had a sharp intake of breath as he made contact. Reverence and… a hint of sorrow curling on his wrinkled face. Brushing against every bit of skin with a gentle caress. Committing every bump and ridge to memory. Daenerys closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. "Shaera…" he murmured, mouth open in awe. "You look just like her… my niece… your grandmother. Beautiful."

"Truly?" Dany gasped a bit. She'd been called beautiful more times than she could count. Yet, hearing it from Aemon knocked her back a bit. It wasn't out of lust or favor currying, but a means of connecting her to her long-lost family. No words of affirmation ever meant more to her.

"Ah… I wouldn't lie," Aemon said, chuckling a bit. "I'd know you were a Targaryen even if I didn't already know."

Unable to hold back a smile, Dany felt lighter than she had in ages. "I'm glad you've come."

"I am as well, sweet child. However, in my old age, I'm tired from the journey. I'm afraid I must rest."

"Yes, of course." While it was a bit deflating to not be able to speak with the only other dragon in existence, Daenerys couldn't blame an old man for needing his rest. "We shall continue on the morrow, uncle?"

Smiling toothlessly, Aemon placed his hand behind her head and pulled her in. He kissed Dany sweetly on the forehead. "You can count on it, child."

The same lightness returned, a gesture so loving that Daenerys could only remember her brother doing… a few times before Ser Willam died, when he was still her loving brother. "Splending," she ended up saying, voice catching a bit. "Missandei will take you to your chambers."

At the arrival of the Naathi translator, Aemon followed the sound of her steps. "Missandei? Naathi, correct?"

Missandei's eyes widened. "Yes, Prince Aemon. How did you know?"

"Oh, I wasn't always an old codger once," he chuckled, beginning to walk with her. "As a child, I was quite the worldly figure. Socialized with men and women of every nationality in the known world, got a good ear for accents even now… and it's not Prince. Hasn't been for a long time." His voice was warm. "Call me Aemon." He coaxed a smile out of Missandei quite quickly.

Watching and sighing in contentment and happiness, Daenerys motioned to her Hand and her bloodriders to follow her back to the painted table room. "Wait… your Grace." The Queen turned as the portly acolyte rushed to approach her before she left the hall.

Barristan was already in the way before the bloodriders, hand on the hilt of his sword. "Stand aside, Lord Tarly…"

"No." Daenerys held up a hand, but stayed behind the burly Dothraki. "I'll hear what he wishes to say." A small smile for the acolyte… "Lord Tarly?"

He nodded. "Samwell Tarly, your Grace - though everyone calls me Sam." He smiled sheepishly, feet shifting nervously.

Daenerys watched him expectantly. "You have something to say, Sam?" The question was gentle.

"Your Grace, if I may," Sam began, shaking a bit. He drew a thin sack from behind his back. He reached into it and retrieved a longsword. "I believe you may recognize this blade. It was Jorah Mormont's. I... I was with him. He went there for treatment."

Dany walked forward slowly, eyes only on the sword. Sam held it out to her and she took it. She pulled the blade out just a bit from the scabbard. "I see."

"I'm… I'm very sorry, Your Grace. I believe I did all I could for him."

"What happened to him?"

"The greyscale had spread and we had no cure. I tried. I really tried to help him. But the Citadel wouldn't allow me to further treat him in fear of it spreading. He didn't want to be alone. So, I sat with him for a while. He talked long about you. You were all he talked about," Sam explained, laughing a bit. Remembering Jorah fondly despite the circumstances. "Greyscale, you see, doesn't outright kill you. Not immediately, at least, it just spreads all over the body. It had covered his chest and both his arms." Sam hovered his hands over his own body to accent his point. "It had begun to spread up the neck… But he didn't want it to continue. The Citadel prepared a painless concoction for him to drink. It seemed like he just went to sleep."

"Oh," Dany sighed. "I understand."

"He… He cared very much for you. Often he'd ask if you'd landed on Westeros. Finally, I was able to tell him that you had. A bright smile bounded across his face. Even though he was in great pain."

"Thank you for trying…" Dany replied. Though clearly seeing Jorah himself instead would've been better. Having just heard this, she didn't really have time to fully react. That would come later. Her Queenly persona stayed intact, despite her insides screaming. "Ser Barristan can escort you to your quarters, Acolyte Samwell."

Barristan blinked. "But my Queen…"

"Go," Dany ordered, slightly blunter than she wished. "I want to be alone." Bowing, Barristan complied, leaving Daenerys alone in the Throne room. Leaning against one of the columns, head pounding, Dany realized it wasn't good enough. Her heart beating out of her chest. She needed to be somewhere. Anywhere else but here.

And so her legs carried her away, her mind somewhat blank. The direction surprised her, but she didn't stop herself. Going to a place she strangely desired to go.

* * *

Cowl pulled over his head, Daario cursed as he swung the torch back and forth. The air down here was cold and fetid. Water droplets pittered on the stone floor, moisture prevalent everywhere.  _What the fuck am I doing down here?_  Teeth clenched, his mind thought back to his childhood in the sleazy pleasure houses of Lys. How he had forged such power to rise out of that muck… where it had been silken sheets and gold goblets that adorned his life rather than dank tunnels and rot-covered ground.

 _Well no more. Now is your chance to end this._  Trying to keep calm in the face of his rising frustration, he stormed down the corridor. Searching blindly for the room…

A rough hand pulled him through a doorway, latch shut tight behind. Daario felt his torch yanked away and thrust into a wall-mounted holder. "Been followed?" came the gruff voice.  _One of my loyal men, good._

"You know me better than that, Tyro," Daario replied with a smug grin. Eyes flickering around the tiny storage vault - looked to be cases of sour wine rations by the looks of them - he spotted two other lieutenants and a sergeant, the remaining officers of the Second Sons on Dragonstone.  _Good, everyone is here._  "Alright Tyro, what's the status of the prisoner?" There was no need to elaborate, nor did his subordinates ask.

Tyro, a thin man good with a bow that had joins the outfit only a year after Daario, cleared his throat. "I don't know for sure."

Blinking, Daario narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean you're not sure? I ask you for one simple task."

"You have to understand," said The sergeant. "After your little… interrogation accident, her Grace has frozen us out of the loop."

"Impossible." Daario couldn't believe it. "We're an integral part of Her Grace's army."

"Oh no, we still are, but most of us are in the middle of fucking no man's land in the beachhead…" while the characterization of the land between Lannister and Targaryen held regions wasn't one he knew, Daario could deduce the meaning. "But we have heard things."

 _At least someone did their assigned task._  "And?" Daario tapped his foot impatiently.

Sighing, Tyro eyed each of the men before turning back to his nominal Captain. "He's been moved from the dungeons." The voice was low, almost a whisper.

Daario heard it nonetheless. "He what?" The voice was stunned and dangerous, eyes narrowing.

Another lieutenant nodded. "The freed slave with the huge tits moved him to one of the unused guest quarter. I don't know which one for sure, but there are double Unsullied and Dothraki guards on the secondary guest wing so I can guess he's somewhere there."

Running a hand through his hair, Daario silently cursed Missandei and the Imp… both of them were probably behind this.  _Probably Barristan too, but I doubt he'd take an interest._  His talents were mostly military. "Fuck… alright. There's still a chance to reverse this mistake… what?" His men were giving him quizzical looks and he didn't like it.

Eyes shifting from one to the other, finally Tyro stepped forward for the lot of them. "Boss… we've discussed it and we believe it would be best if you just let this one go."

The Captain of the Second Sons couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're just going to let a northern bastard corrupt the Queen's mind?" As long as he remained in Missandei's custody, the soft policy would continue and only lead to another Harpy uprising situation.

"I'm sorry, boss, but we've been basically pariahs since you pulled that stunt. A hostage cannot be harmed unless ordered by the Dragon Queen. Even we sellswords know that." As hesitant as they were to do this to their captain, it was necessary and they stood firm.

Glaring, Daario met the gaze of each one of them. "So if I order you to drag him back to the dungeons where he belongs?" He just wanted to know if he could trust his own men, or if they would emulate his actions at Yunkai.

The sergeant stepped forward. "Brave, skilled men died because you disobeyed the Queen and set upon Jon Stark. I'm not going to wastefully lose my life for you… Captain." The use of his title didn't soften the blow.

"And so it is, then?" Daario nodded. "Alright. Get whatever men we have left, we ship off to the mainland as soon as I obtain her Grace's blessing." Relieved looks on all of them, they shook hands with and smack Daario on the back. Worries finally abated.

When they left, leaving Daario alone under the flickering torchlight, he slammed his fist on the wall. Snarling half at the pain of his split knuckles and half on the situation.

"Fine!" He yelled into the void, brushing his hand over the stump that used to be two fingers on his left hand. "I'll do it myself!"

* * *

_Ash…_

_It was all he could see around him. A mass cloud of it falling from the sky, coating the ground as the snow did north of the Wall - grey and lifeless. His boots made imprints in the horrid substance as some force compelled him to walk through it. Towards something… but he didn't know what…_

_The vast plain of ash wasn't all he could see for long. Buildings appeared, once large and beautiful. Now at best desolate and shoddy, covered in the remnants of a once mighty inferno. The majority however, in various stages of destruction. Some half-collapsed, some mostly collapsed, many more gutted out corpses worse than any wight - monuments to whatever force had erupted into the once vibrant place Jon felt he was desecrating by his very presence._

_One foot after the other, he nearly lost his balance on something… a body. A woman holding a babe close to her, bottom half having burned off in the past flames. Jon fought the urge to vomit, struggling to stay upright as he doubled over. A dragon… Only a dragon could do this much damage, cause so much death… Perhaps he should have killed the Dragon Queen when he had a chance…_

_The thought died in his mind as quickly as it came. Somehow, Jon felt his consciousness reject the urge to blame Daenerys. As if by some instinct, he knew she wasn't culpable for this. But that answered less questions than it caused…_

_And then he heard it. Cheers. Drums. The sound of some sort of celebration, some sort of parade. Gingerly breaking out in a trot, Jon came upon a massive courtyard. Overlooked by the ruins of a once great castle. The Red Keep? Was he in King's Landing the whole time?_

_At the steps stood a figure, obscured by the ash still falling from the sky. Army cheering before him, a mighty conqueror, warrior… murderer. Jon strained his eyes, trying to pick him out to no avail. The army was formless, shapeless, just a mass of bodies unrecognizable to him. Desperate, he looked at the sigils, trying to spot anything. A lion, a dragon…_

_Suddenly a roar knocked him to his back, the last thing Jon witnessing being a massive green shape descend from the sky. Amber eyes seeking out him…_

Jon woke up suddenly, eyes flying open before they fluttered shut with a groan. His skull pounded behind his eyes.  _Gods, what in seven hells was that?_  He pushed himself upright, legs swinging to dangle from the cot. Nightmares were nothing new. In all honesty, all his dreams were nightmares. They fell into a predictable pattern: his family all dying before him while he was immobilized, the army of the dead ripping through the armies of the living, his friends being burned alive…

But this one was different. There was no haze, no surreality about it. Clear, clean, crisp… Almost like a vision… Jon shook his head.  _Not possible, Snow. You're only a bastard._

Laying back into the bed, feet up, Jon closed his eyes. Not to sleep, for sleep was impossible now. Merely to think - to reflect upon the swirling cauldron of his emotions. This dream was unlike the others in another way. Others expressions of utter terror, this one found him after the horrible fact. Walking upon an atrocity having been committed… If his head hadn't ached before, it certainly would now.

Hearing footsteps outside the comfortable room he was locked up in, Jon sighed. Assuming it was merely Missandei and continuing to stare at the ceiling. Not looking even when the door opened, or when the Unsullied clicked their heels. Such were a regular routine of the Naathi translator's visits. While he didn't enjoy them, he didn't not dislike them either. Even the most uncooperative prisoner appreciated companionship.

Stirred into turning from the silence, the first glimpse of silver hair proved the intruder wasn't Missandei. "Oh, it's you." On some level, he wasn't surprised Daenerys Targaryen was in front of him. "I would stand up, but what would be the point."

She was quiet, simply standing there. The door closed behind her. She stood by it. "I don't expect you to."

Sighing, he shifted upright, leaning against the dark stone walls while sitting on his bed. Eyebrow quirking up at her appearance. Normally the dark blacks and grey leather of a Targaryen dragonrider, the person before him wasn't that at all. While her eyes were still powerful and piercing, her battledress was replaced with a flowing gown of red and black. Rubies, diamonds, and jet jewels adorning her. She looked radiant, like a true Queen...

Yet it wasn't what truly piqued his interest. No, it was her eyes. Beneath the hard exterior, the look that made one think she saw right through them… it masked a sadness.  _She's grieving._  He knew the look - Jon had seen it in his own face when Ygritte died.  _What could you possibly be grieving about?_

Minutes pass, perhaps even hours. The two of them, one a trueborn Queen if an illustrious House and the other a baseborn bastard only legitimized as a power play by a desperate King, simply staring at the other. Unknowing of the nature of this standoff. Be it hostile, proving, or something else entirely.

It was Daenerys who made the first move. "I…" she said, emotions threatening to bubble up. Yet she pushed it back down as she always does.

"Is there something you want?"

Her jaw clenched, "I'm not sure." Daenerys hated showing weakness, especially in front of him, but she simply had no answer. "I don't even know why I came down here." It was as if her legs had simply brought her here of their own accord instead of literally anywhere else.

"You think I have answers for you?" Jon said, chuckling. "I'm afraid I'm all out of ideas. This continual confinement has deprived me of many things. I don't feel particularly chivalrous either."

"I'd hardly expect nice things from you, Stark. You've only been cold to me."

"Cold?" Jon sat up. "You call that cold? You're from the South… Seven Hells, not even the South. From  _Essos_." A land alien to him; it might as well have been on the moon. Put into context, the gulf Daenerys elicited with the people she was trying to rule. "You don't know what cold is. To be covered in three layers of furs and still be freezing. That's cold. I know all about being cold. It's all I've ever known."

She crossed her arms. "You hardly know how to properly treat a Queen."

"You are a Queen. But not _my_  Queen." Jon didn't want to antagonize her. At this point, it was worthless, a momentary fleeting high that served no one. But his honor owed even the Dragon Queen the simple truth. "You so desperately want me to serve you. To bend the knee, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why."

Her scowl was deep. This had been discussed and browbeaten into him for weeks, and yet he still failed to understand. "You need to stop being stubborn, Jon Stark. Your usurper King holds no title and holds no claim over the Iron Throne. His brother usurped the Throne from my family and stole my rightful birthright…"

"And there it is!" he snarled, sick of hearing this. "How the fuck do you think your family gained that throne in the first damn place?!" Pausing to breathe, he saw her quiet. Violet eyes narrowed at him. "Conquest. It's a fucking Iron Chair worth nothing, yet the only birthright is by conquest. Aegon the Conqueror forged it through conquest, and Robert took it through conquest. You are taking it not by right, but through conquest as well, leaving me and my men in the middle of it."

The fire within her blood was flaring, begging to emerge and smite this insolent whelp for daring to attack her in her moment of personal anguish. But Daenerys wasn't Viserys. She wouldn't allow herself to become what her enemies painted her as. What  _Jon Stark_  believed of her. "So many in Westeros do not care about slaves and freedmen in Essos, yet I have. They are why I shall earn my throne. Not simply conquer it."

Jon snorted. "Perhaps I don't know about Essos. I admit it, but tell me this, Queen Daenerys." He sat up slightly, never breaking his lock on her eyes. The first man since she had taken the Unsullied who dared to stare her down. "Would you see yourself as the person to free the slaves - to free us from something I can't point to - had your name been Stark? Tyrell? Lannister? Tollet? Giantsbane? Fuck, had you been a fucking bastard named Snow. Would you have even bothered to imagine yourself taking that throne with a mind clouded with delusions of altruism?"

 _How dare he?_  "When I sit on the throne, it shall be by the choice of the people. As I allowed the Unsullied to choose. The Dothraki to choose. The free men and women of the former Slaver's Bay to choose."

"Choice?" He couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "Between bending the knee and burning alive? What sort of choice is that?"

"The choice between a ruler that truly fights for them and rulers that only fight for themselves."

Sighing, Jon fell back against the furs. "There is no choice for me, or the North. You've already soundly defeated my army. There is no one left to fight for you, probably only enough to keep my sisters safe in the keep they call their home! You did that. I'm not there to protect them because of you. You'll just fly your dragons over there and make them come to heel as your ancestors did. Likely, I'll still be sitting in this damn room when that happens." Jon hadn't wanted to raise his voice, but he didn't lower it either.

Dany, aside from the first outburst, remained unmoved as he went off on her. "That's not the way I want it. I don't want to burn your home to the ground." It was the truth. "I came to break your chains."

"You had no problems burning all my friends when you attacked me." It was also the truth as well. "What chains of theirs did you break?"

His words truly stunned her. Dented her regal demeanor. "That was different."

"How?"

"We were warring with each other. Burning Winterfell unprovoked would be a crime."

"So that's where you draw the line? Alright to burn men to death without even a parlay before battle. Burn men to death that surrendered to you, but not their homes and keeps?"

"All I want us to bring peace into a world that's only seen chaos. I've come to break the wheel that's crushed all below it for centuries," Dany tried to explain, though Jon's exterior was hard to crack. "I told you already. I don't want to force you or your people to follow me. I just wish you'd do it yourself."

"Why? What reason do I have?"

"It's the proper thing for you to do as the leader of your people."

"How do you know what the 'proper' thing would be for my people? You don't know them."

"I know what I would do if I was in your position. Give up yourself in exchange for the safety of your people," Dany told him, speaking as if it was obvious.

Jon scoffed, "The mighty Mother of Dragons, taking what you will from the world just because your father was a King."  _How could this be the woman Missandei spoke of?_  "Well I had none of that! I'm a damn bastard, worth nothing in the scheme of things and yet my men followed me because I'd give everything for them. Give everything for my family including my own worthless life!" It was why he was here, at the mercy of the Dragon Queen. "I hardly think you know anything about giving yourself up for anyone or anything."

There was a long silence, the two simply staring at each other. A tension so thick that it would take Longclaw to cleave through it. Neither moving, Jon's breathing heavy as he cooled his rage while Daenerys didn't make a single sound...

"Have you ever been raped, Jon Stark?"

Whatever answers Jon expected, that wasn't one of them. He had no response.

Taking his wide eyes as answer enough, Daenerys continued. "Do you know what it's truly like? To be raped, defiled, used as a broodmare by someone who cared nothing about you but as some sort of plunder? A trophy to display to the world, to his followers?" Once again no answer.

He broke her. The words a Valyrian steel driving straight through her regal armor, through the dragonhide that had so shielded her since walking into the flames and emerging with dragons. Everything - from her dreams, his stubbornness on and off the battlefield, all revolution of her life since her arrival on the island of her birth centering on this Jon Stark - a whirlwind of emotions turned into a shattering tsunami upon Daenerys Targaryen. Exploiting her weakness upon the death of Ser Jorah… a perfect storm, one that now drew a tear from her eye. Unbidden, but unavoidable.

One the completely stunned Jon Stark couldn't help but notice.

"You grew up with a father that loved you, Lord Stark. A home where you could be safe - from an assassin that waited somewhere in the shadows paid by the King that destroyed your family. Ready to do to you what Tywin Lannister's dogs did to my niece and nephew all for a measly bag of gold. Your life, the life of an innocent child bartered for a bag of gold like a… a… common chicken!"

Jon had seen pathetic crying before. From Rast, cowering before Ghost, from Janos Slynt, fleeing from the Wildlings. This… this was genuine. One he was familiar with.  _A little boy, crying before the Godswood and praying to the gods for a mother to love him…_

All in all, with such similar emotions ripping through her, the Queen was holding up pretty well.

What whispers and pained cries had changed to a snarling rage. A desperate anger. Things long dormant inside her finally bubbling to the surface. "Did you ever know hunger as a child?!" Daenerys screamed. "Hunger that shreds your insides, thirst that feels like sheets of sand are scraping against your throat? Being beaten, demeaned, defiled by the only family you had left, oh trueborn son of the Lord Paramount of the North. Growing up in a great keep with warmth and food." She sneered at him "You never had to be sold as a broodmare. Watched the corpse of your newborn son carted off. Parlayed off as chattel, as a means to gain an army!"

 _'I would let his whole tribe fuck you, all forty thousand men and their horses too, if that's what it took.'_  Dany remembered the words as they were etched into her mind. Ever since they left the lips of her brother, a man who was supposed to care for her. Only for him to only treat her as lesser.

From how Jon simply stared at her, confusion and shock evident even in those enigmatic grey eyes of his, she must have spoken out loud. Good.

It all erupted, violet eyes filled with hate. Disgust. Envy… "You couldn't have ever endured what I did, Jon Stark! Never triumphed after what I've gone through. Sold, raped, chained, defiled, beaten, attacked, engulfed in flame… I took it all and triumphed!" Daenerys was sure that the very stone of the keep was shaking from her screams, but she did not care. "And I would do it all again! Burn as many of those vile people that sought to destroy me. To destroy the millions that follow me! I will have my throne! I will have my birthright! I will have my home…" Voice hoarse, mind-clearing from its rage, she trailed off. Merely standing there in her glittering dress. "So don't ever tell me that I've never given myself. My entire life is a sacrifice." Chest heaving from her breaths. Daring him to respond.

His eyes studied her. Peering as if to analyze Daenerys' very soul. It made her shiver involuntarily, as if he could see beneath her dress. But it was what Jon Stark finally said that knocked her composure. "I know what that's like."

Daenerys blinked. "Know what what's like?" Frankly, she had said plenty of things - his simple words didn't give her much of a clue.

What would have elicited a sarcastic chuckle at her confusion before, it didn't this time. Jon was serious. "To be in a place surrounded by people who are supposed to love you. Bound by blood and nurture to be your family in every sense of the word. Yet at the same time, not feeling an ounce of that love." Glancing at the floor, he grinned weakly, lost in the absurdity of it all. "Who was it? Your brother?"

She closed her eyes. Remembering every single time he had hit her - the moments blended together, so common across her entire childhood. "Yes." The single tear returned, falling down her cheek.

 _Seven hells…_  Somewhere, out of thin air, Jon felt the urge to rend this brother of hers. Dead and buried somewhere in Essos, didn't matter. His instinct just surged within him. "Was he the one who raped you?"

The Queen shook her head violently. "Not that he didn't try, nor that he didn't desire it, but he wasn't the one."

"Thank the gods for small favors." Jon eased himself upright, swinging his legs to dangle from the small bed. "My sister… she was raped. I saw what the monster turned her into."

"I hope he's dead." Rapists deserved no quarter in her opinion.

"He is. Theon ripped his throat out."

"Good." Legs sore, wobbling, Daenerys took a chance and sat upon the bed. As far away from him as she could, hands in her lap. "You love your sister… Sansa?"

He nodded. "I do… even though she hated me most of her life." Jon didn't bother to wait for any response. "Her mother, Lady Stark. She… followed the Faith of the Seven in regards to bastards. Greedy, covetous creatures to be seen in contempt. Much as I loved my sister, till we reunited that's how she saw me."

"No one deserves treatment like that… not even bastards."

"Or slaves I suppose." He was never bought or sold as a slave - or Daenerys, by her brother apparently - but as a bastard Jon had never been free. Not like Robb, or Arya. Only when his father was around…  _My father._  "I may not know how it is to be raped, or to be sold, or to be a child on the run, but there are things that I do know." It didn't take heightened senses to feel her eyes intense upon him. "Imagine knowing that the only people that do love you were butchered thousands of miles away, or lost in the vastness of the continent."

"You speak of your father."

"And my brothers… and sisters. House Stark is only half of what it was, and even the survivors shells of what we were. As for myself, I was always a shell. Half of a man. I often wonder what it would've been like if my father would've just stood up for me. Just told Catelyn Stark that I truly was his son. That no one should bother me anymore. Yet, he never did."

 _He never had a mother… much like me._  "I never knew my father. All I know of him is how terrible he was. Yet, I wonder what he truly was like. Perhaps before he lost his mind."

Jon didn't know whether to sigh or to chuckle. For Sansa, he would have done the former coupled with a hug. For Sam or Tormund, the latter with a gentle nudge on the shoulder. He decided to just continue the conversation. "I should count myself lucky on that. My father was just and kind."

"He supported the Usurper." It wasn't an accusation, merely a statement. "Robert Baratheon was a man that grinned gleefully at the sight of my murdered niece and nephew."

What Daenerys knew, so did Jon. Stannis was never anything but honest about his brother. "Any man can make a mistake. It is the ones that try to remedy them that truly care."

Dany's eyes shut tightly at that. His statement bringing her back to what Samwell Tarly told her… about Jorah.  _My old bear._  If Jon has been at the Watch, wouldn't he know them? Perhaps he'd understand, or be swayed by…

"A delegation from your sister arrived today." Without looking, she could tell his eyes were now on her. "For the sake of impartiality, I believe, both were sworn brothers of the Night's Watch… both men that knew you closely." Her face clouded with emotion, a wan smile forming.

Thinking, Jon searches his mind for who of his former friends would rate that level of positive thought in Daenerys. There was only one, and it came to him quickly. "Maester Aemon?" he asked with hope.

The Queen nodded. "You have to appreciate how… infinitesimal the odds are. That we are enemies…" The word left a bad taste in her mouth. "Rivals," Dany corrected. "And yet someone so close to you is also the only family I have left."

"Aye. He was… sometimes almost like a grandfather to me. Or a kindly uncle." A thought came to Jon. He didn't know why, but he felt the urge to tell her. "He spoke of you, at the Wall… of your exploits in Essos. I confess that I didn't often listen as I should have, but the lowly bastard at the Wall doesn't imagine himself a great Lord involved in such great matters as these."

"No, I suppose not." The truth in his words about her uncle made Daenerys want to fall back on the bed and cry tears of joy. Her long lost family caring for her even from afar. And yet… "His arrival was bittersweet. All the joy was tempered with sorrow."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure anything could complicate a reunion with your long-lost family."

"Your friend, Samwell, came with Aemon as his caretaker. Not that he himself is the cause for my sorrow."

"Sam's here?" Jon asked somewhat excitedly. "I haven't seen him in a very long time."

"Perhaps it could be arranged that you could meet with him." Daenerys would not deny him that. "Besides, they were likely sent here for you."

"What do you mean?"

"My council suspects that your sister sent Aemon to prey on familial sensibilities. She knew I wouldn't turn Aemon away. She wants him to convince me to let you go."

"Well," Jon shrugged. "I suppose that's possible."

It was the smart thing to do - Dany didn't begrudge the Starks for it. "Your friend Sam told me that a dear friend of mine had died. Jorah Mormont."

"Mormont?" Jon asks. "I knew a Mormont once. I respected him greatly."

Dany huffed quietly, with a shadow of grin. Thinking of the odds they both knew a Mormont. Finding it strange how similar some of their experiences were. Only reality set in again, her grin disappearing. "Jorah... He loved me. But I could never return his feelings. Now, he's gone. He was with me from the beginning. I... I will miss him."

"I know what it's like to lose someone." Jon sighed. Remembering how he had killed Roose Bolton, how he had butchered Walder Frey. "You and I... we have more in common than I ever thought possible." He focused on her words from earlier and recognizing her loss, comparing it with his own. "Holding a person you love beyond possibility." Ygritte, the wild yet beautiful warrior of the Free Folk, dead by the hand of his own men… dying in his arms because of him... "Knowing they died because of your own foolish pride and duty." He sighed once more. "Perhaps, it is that reason that we are monsters. Or grief and sorrow simply follow those with title."

"I choose to believe that in our power, we can bring justice and peace."

"Aye… that's what keeps me going."

For once in their short yet turbulent history, Daenerys found herself smiling at him - small and halting - but a genuine smile nonetheless. Gaze studying Jon Stark, the true Jon Stark. For a simple moment the brooding and pain vanished, leaving a comely young man. Face serene at having someone to unburden his soul with. A person that he needn't protect as he would his family, for Daenerys understood Jon Stark's pain as she felt he understood hers.

Staring at his comely face, a sudden urge to reach out… to touch him, to kiss…

It was gone in an instant. Replaced with the aftershock of surprise and shock. How did… Without hesitation, Dany stood - smoothing out her dress and adopting a regal demeanor. "Thank you for your counsel, Lord Stark." Even when personal in nature, that was what he did. "If there is anything you require within reason, I shall instruct Missandei to obtain and provide you with such."

"I am in need of a boat to White Harbor."

Turning to glare at him, there was a twinkle in his eye that confessed a lack of complete seriousness. "Within reason, Lord Stark," Dany chided. Not without a slight amusement as well.

Watching her leave - the mystery of the Dragon Queen both chipped away and added to from their conversation - Jon failed to feel hate. To glare at her retreating form, despising the tyrant that killed his men. Distrusting the usurper that imprisoned him. Wary of the enigma that she was even after the confessions of today.

Before she left, her face turned back to him. As if to say something, but clearly the need faded and her mouth shut. Though she graced him with another small smile before ducking out.

Jon couldn't help but notice how truly beautiful she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRuh4: I hope most of you are able to finally see what we've got going on. There was at one time so much doubt. I hope it's been dissipated a bit. Contrary to popular belief, we do know exactly what we're doing. We have the whole time. The conversation Jon and Dany have in this chapter accents the growth they've had. They've come to a point where it's not so much they hate each other. But more that they're on the same level. The two of them have a lot in common they ever realized before because all they saw in each other was hate.
> 
> I hope you can see what we see. I hope it makes sense now. If it doesn't... well, I honestly have nothing less to say that I already haven't before. Just be a decent human being.
> 
> Longclaw: Aemon's scene with Dany even made me cry. It was a moment that Dany deserved and we were glad to make it.
> 
> Daario... wel...
> 
> For Jon and Dany... everything came full circle. The plan is going into effect... and Jon is having dragon dreams. Interesting, isn't it?
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Mori hash she, khaleesi - They're here, Khaleesi.
> 
> San athchomari yeraan, Rokharo. Fichat eyak tat anna - Thank you, rokharo. Bring them to the me
> 
> Tell your friends.


End file.
